


Dreams in Flight

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [24]
Category: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights, كتب الف ليلة و ليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adorkable, Adventure, Anal Fingering, Anal Fingering (male receiving), Anal Gaping, Anal Masturbation, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Anal-Oral Sex, Androgynous male character, Angst and Porn, Ass to Mouth, Automata, BBW, BDSM, Bedtime Stories, Big Cocks, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexuality, Brotherly Love, Character of Faith, Cheetahs, Chinese Characters, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock and Ball Bondage, Cock and Ball Weights, Contraceptive magic, Crossdressing, Cuddling, Cunnilingus, Curvy Fetish, Dildos, Dominant Male Character, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Egalitarian Het Relationship, Erotica, Established Relationship, Ethiopian Characters, F/F, F/M, Family Fluff, Fantasy, Fellatio, Female Character of Color, Female sexual agency, Femdom, Femdom (female receiving), Femdom (male receiving), Feminist Themes, Femslash, Fever, Flying, Flying Carpets, Flying Horses, Freed slaves, Gardens & Gardening, Gen chapters, Genderbending, Genderbending Roleplay, Healing Sex, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Het, Het and Femslash, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Heterosexual Sex, Historical Accuracy, Historical Erotic Romance, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical Romance, Horny Female Characters, Hurt/Comfort, Interracial Relationship, Irreligious character, Islam, Islamic mythology and lore, Jealousy, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Lesbian Anal Sex, Lesbian Sex, Light Bondage, Lube, Macho Bullshit Being Deflated, Magic, Magic Mirrors, Magic as sex aid, Magic-Users, Male Character of Color, Married Couple, Masturbation, Maternal love, Medieval Islamic Metaphysics, Middle Ages, Miracles, Multi, Muslim characters, Older Man/Younger Woman, Open Relationships, Orgasm Delay, Pagan characters, Period Attitudes Towards Race, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Persian Characters, Petite women, Pilgrimage, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Prophetic Dreams, Prostate Milking, Queer Het, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Relationship Negotiation, Religion, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, SCRYING, Service Top, Sexual Roleplay, Sexual Teasing, Sexual Tension, Slavery, Spiritual, Stripping, Strong Female Characters, Switching, Swordplay, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Telepathic Siblings, Telepathy, Tender Sex, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, Tomboys, Undressing, Vaginal Sex, Viking Characters, Visions, Voluptuousness, Voyeurism, Whipping, ass to other person's mouth, belt whipping, costume porn, fairytales - Freeform, faith - Freeform, herbs, injuries, precocious children, pussy juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-04-19 17:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: A tale in which the characters, all in their own ways, experience dreams come true. Yassamin has a terrible, prophetic nightmare; Jaffar sets out to exorcise her fears with his unyielding love. Salsabil and Anwar have caliphate-spanning adventures of their own, realising faith can indeed move mountains. Finally, Fadl, Zainab and Lina sort out their love triangle--in a most pleasurable way at that.With a despairing moan, Yassamin surrenders her terror and her fear unto the all-devouring force of Jaffar's love; soon, he's pinned her to the bed and the bed itself creaks from the blows of his hips as he takes her and he takes her. Still in their nightshirts, they cling to each other, his arms about her as vines; he buried within her, gathering her together as if to say:with this love, do I guard thee; with this flesh do I protect thy flesh; with this body do I protect the fruit of thy womb: that which sprung from thee and me.And for that, do I love thee,she whispers back, a promise solemn as she melts onto his cleaving unto her. Just as herbs are crushed for medicine, so does Jaffar the alchemist now work her sorrow into sweetness: his love the fire, their bodies the alembic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 24 in the Of Roses Unfurling saga. As with the previous parts, Fadl is played by Basil Rathbone [(looking pretty much like this by this fic)](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Veidt/fadlolder.jpg) and Zainab by a BBWd up [twentysomething Bonita Granville](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Veidt/zainabybunny.jpg); these days, I also imagine Salsabil as [a young Fairuza Balk.](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Veidt/salsabilmeep.jpg) Lina, Zahra, Anwar and Sonbol I haven't got a headcast for, so feel free to visualise whoever you like; there are some pointers as to their looks and personalities in my [cast post](https://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2569977.html) for the previous fic. 
> 
> There's also little more femslash and F/F/M fun in this one; hope you'll enjoy!

***

 _Traveller, must you go?_  
_The night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest._  
_The lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, and_  
_the youthful eyes still awake_  
_Is the time for your parting come?_  
_Traveller, must you go?_  
  
_What quenchless fire glows in your eyes?_  
_What restless fever runs in your blood?_  
_What call from the dark urges you?_  
_What awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky,_  
_that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart,_  
_silent and strange?_  
  
_O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart_  
_of the mid-night?_  
  
\--Rabindranath Tagore

***

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

She wakes up screaming.

"Yassamin!"

She is being shaken by the shoulders, but she cannot move, cannot see--it's dark--it's dark--her chest hurts so much she can barely scream. Scream--

"Yassamin!"

Arms around her, an embrace tight, crushing--death--

\--no, Jaffar; it's Jaffar.

Her beloved Jaffar. His eyes, wide from fright; his hair, flying about his sleep-worn face.

With a moan, she presses her face into his shoulder, embraces him tight, tight; he is life, he is hope, he is real. Real. She closes her eyes, but against the blackness of her eyelids, the horrible vision of her nightmare comes back to her in a flash: she moans again and digs her fingers into his back even more violently, opening her eyes to banish the awful sight.

"Where's Salsabil?" she pants, pulling back from him, still clutching his nightshirt.

He brushes her hair back from her face, cupping her head tenderly, his eyes flickering back and forth as he regards her. "Asleep, where else?"

"I must see," she says and tears herself out of his arms, dashing out of bed.

"What did you see?" Jaffar cries after her, but in vain: she is already out of the door. She runs barefoot down the corridor, cold in her nightgown but she doesn't care. Her child, her child--

"Mother?" Anwar rubs his eyes as Yassamin appears at the children's bedroom door.

She looks around, but Salsabil is not in her bed; her heart lurches in her chest and she balances herself against the doorframe.

"Mother, whatever is the matter?" Anwar asks, the serious little man he is.

"Where's Salsabil?" she croaks.

"Praying, I suppose," Anwar mumbles, looking dejected. "She often wanders off like that. Can _I_ not help, whatever it is?"

Suddenly guilty, Yassamin sits on Anwar's bed, embracing him and kissing his tousled little head. "I apologise, my child. Mother had a terrible nightmare in which Salsabil--" but now, a chill runs through her once more. "Where exactly is she praying?" she asks, even if she can guess; she bolts up again before Anwar can answer.

"The roofto--" he says, his hand falling on the bed as Yassamin abandons him, too, rushing out of the door.

 _"Salsabil!"_ she shouts, her lungs burning as she runs outside into the courtyard, rushing up the stairs set into the wall outside the children's quarters, stumbling onto the rooftop in the breaking dawn.

And there she is, her little Salsabil: a calm, quiet little bundle, fallen asleep upon her prayer rug, as serene as the light blue morning itself.

"Oh, Salsabil," Yassamin moans, her voice now hoarse; she kneels upon the rug, picks up the blinking girl into her arms and hugs her, holds her as if she were still but an infant, cradling her against her breasts. "My daughter, my daughter; my precious little daughter."

"What's wrong, Mother?" Salsabil murmurs as Yassamin caresses her face, taking her in. "What's happened?"

"I had a terrible dream," Yassamin whispers, closing her eyes, shuddering once more; she tears her eyes open again and stares at Salsabil, to wipe away the terrifying vision with the reality of her daughter, safe and alive in her arms.

And now, Anwar has arrived on the rooftop and kneels beside them; Yassamin gathers him into her embrace, too. Jaffar follows in tow, but much more slowly; he is always stiff in the mornings and is panting a little by the time he joins them on the rug.

"Tell us," Jaffar says with a hand upon Yassamin's shoulder. Dreams can be important prophecies, after all; that's why he, too, is worried.

"It was that horse you were building," Yassamin whispers into Salsabil's hair. "I was flying on it, terrified for my life; I was carrying Salsabil. She was just a baby in my arms; just a little bundle. And the next moment, she was falling, falling out of my arms and I could not catch her--I jumped in after her, and I still could not catch her--and then the earth came up and everything went dark and I--" she bursts into tears, sobbing against Salsabil. "Oh, it was horrible, _horrible,_ Jaffar," she weeps. "Promise me you will destroy it," she sobs, "take a mallet to it! I--" but now, she is choking upon her tears, too upset to speak.

Distraught, Jaffar almost tells her he has worked upon the horse for months, but thinks better of it, hugging Yassamin and the children instead. "I am sorry."

"Destroy it!" Yassamin cries, her mouth and nose wet from phlegm, hysterical. "I know you will try and keep working on it in secret; I just know you will!" she spits.

"I'll get rid of it," Jaffar says, quietly. "I promise."

"I don't mean 'sell it,'" she groans. "That horse must not be, do you understand? It's like in the old legends. If that horse exists, Fate will somehow find a way to put us upon it, and kill us both. Is that what you would wish, husband?"

It is then that little Anwar pipes up. "But in all the old stories, the fate of the hero caught up with him anyhow, no matter what he did!" he says, but immediately regrets it, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide from fright.

"Anwar is right!" Salsabil says, looking up at Yassamin. "That's how prophecies _work!_ "

"Ah, but how can we tell a prophetic dream from an empty fancy, a mere trifle cooked up by the brain's humours, a tale entirely harmless?" Jaffar points out. "And you _did_ take valerian to sleep, my love. You know as well as I do that it can bring about nightmares."

Yassamin glares at Jaffar, about to snap at him, but Salsabil interjects. "I'll ask God," she declares, determined. "After all, it _is_ about me, is it not?"

All look at each other.

"Very well, then," Jaffar says, taking Yassamin and Anwar's hands. "Do you want us to leave you alone with Him?"

"Don't be silly, Father. God is everywhere," Salsabil says and picks up her washing bowl, about to fetch fresh water to perform her ablutions with.

"I only mean that it's probably best that we shan't disturb you," Jaffar says and exchanges a meaningful look with Yassamin. _You know her gifts. We're better off going downstairs,_ he speaks to her telepathically as they all get up to leave.

Yassamin but cries out and extricates herself, hugging Salsabil tightly. "Don't do it here on the rooftop. Come downstairs with us at least. I do not wish to see you a _foot_ above the ground, ever again, do you hear?"

"Yes, Mother," Salsabil sighs wearily and yawns, rolling up her prayer rug. "Whatever you say, Mother."

***

Yassamin crawls back into bed, curling up underneath the blanket with a sigh.

"Before you apologise," Jaffar says as he curls up next to her, "I understand." He takes her hand, searching her eyes. "I felt it, saw it," he murmurs, a shudder passing through him, too.

She casts down her eyes. These days, they can easily hear each other's strongest thoughts, even without listening for them, if the thoughts are made louder by intense emotion. And thus, she knows Jaffar can peek in on her shame and her anguish, too, and is made uncomfortable by this--oh, that she should be given to such hysterical behaviour over a mere dream, when Jaffar has, over his lifetime, seen far worse things in the real world: his own children slain before his eyes!

But it is his love and reason that are more unbearable than his thought-reading, at least during times like these. Soon he will say "What is this over-reliance on the physical world, and being ashamed of what you can see in the world of spirit?" and she couldn't bear it--

Having heard this, too, he kisses her.

Over and over, he kisses her, with a grave determination in his eyes, a firm and unyielding intent; with a despairing moan, she surrenders herself gladly, surrenders her terror and her fear unto the all-devouring force of his love.

And a force it is, indeed: within moments, he has pinned her to the bed by her wrists, and the bed itself is creaking from the blows of his hips as he takes her and he takes her. Still in their nightshirts, they cling to each other, his arms around her as vines and his prick buried as deep against her womb as it can be, he gathering her together, holding her together as if to say: _with this love, do I guard thee; with this flesh do I protect thy flesh; with this body do I protect the fruit of thy womb: that which sprung from thee and me._

 _And for that, do I love thee,_ she whispers back into his mind, a promise solemn as she melts onto his cleaving unto her. Just as herbs are crushed to better extract and distill their essences to be used as medicines, so does Jaffar the alchemist now work her sorrow into sweetness, his love the fire and their bodies the alembic.

For once they lie there, soft and tender and sweet from release, she feels elated from the joy of life, intoxicated, glad; so glad that they are alive, here and now, and that their children, their wise and wonderful children, are alive and well.

"Praise be to God," she whispers and laces their hands; "for He is merciful," she whispers as Jaffar kisses her forehead.

 _I promise to dismantle the horse,_ he tells her, even if she can tell just how much the very thought pains him. Months of work have gone into the flying creature; it's so magnificent and elegant, so sure in its flight and graceful in its gait that the one he had made for Yassamin's father seems but a giant trinket in comparison. But now that he has seen what she has seen--

\--both of them shudder and clutch each other.

"Trust me," he says out loud, squeezing her hand so tight it hurts. "No engineering triumph in this world is worth losing wife and child. The horse is a mechanical beast, with no soul: the creation of a new human being is a miracle and a mystery far greater than the creation of a flying machine. Not a day goes by that I do not marvel at the miracle of our love, either, the way it sustains us and feeds us; or that I was given another chance to witness the miracle of becoming a father again," he says, a melancholy smile upon his face and a sheen of tears glittering in his eyes in the morning light. "That your seed and my seed could create new bodies in your womb, bodies God has poured His grace into, by planting souls into them from His fields in Heaven--it is no small privilege that He has granted to us, to be the guardians of those little human beings," he murmurs, laughter dancing in his voice and his eyes. "Forgive me for speaking what you and I already know; but it needs to be said. I have made greater sacrifices for your sake, my little fool," he says and kisses her on the mouth; "it is no matter."

"Oh, Jaffar," she sighs and hugs him tight. "I know how much the automata mean to you, too. So never think me flippant, or that I expect you to obey my every whim. I--"

He presses a finger to her lips. "Shh!" He smiles. "It is decided. No apologies now, my love. I will let you dismantle it yourself, tonight," he says and squeezes her shoulder. "You take the mallet to it, so that you can be absolutely certain. Nothing less would do, I am sure; we can even take the metals to Zainab, have them smelted at one of her smithies if you like."

"I would like that, yes," she says, now even daring to smile a little, marvelling at him, humbled and awed. "Thank you." _What have I done to deserve a husband like this?_ she thinks.

He smacks her on the arse until she yelps. "Many unspeakably wicked, debauched things!" He laughs. "Come, wife. Let us wash and break fast, and hear what news Salsabil has to bring us from the heavenly bureaus concerning our matter."

"Now, there's a thought!" Yassamin laughs as she casts off her nightgown and begins to wash her privates thoroughly above her washbowl. "Do you believe the heavens, too, have bureaucrats?"

"The Chinese believe so," he says as he helps himself to the jug and squats over a bowl of his own to wash. "That there's a complex civil service system in the heavenly realms; with all kinds of ranks and officials."

She scoffs, throwing away the sponge she'd been mopping herself with. "Trust a Barmakid to cherish such a vision!"

"Oh, no," he groans and laughs, "to be quite honest with you, I think there must have been a translation error in the book, for it sounds to me like Hell instead!"

"Blue or white?" Yassamin compares two different kaftans over her arm.

Jaffar points to the robe peeking out of the basket behind her instead. "The pink one," he says as he laces up his drawers. "It's easier to remove, for a start," he says and wiggles his eyebrows. "After all, I'm going to need to _work_ on you again tonight, am I not?"

"All right," she says and gives his groin a tickle until it's his turn to yelp. "But work clothes first, I think, if I'm going down to the shabestan."

"They're still down there," he grins, slinking his hips as he ties back his hair. "Which means you'll have to walk down there nake--"

She silences him with a kaftan to the face, and after he's finished sputtering, a kiss.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some doodles of Yassamin's nightmare, and of Jaffar comforting her, [here](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/yassnightmare1.jpg) and [here.](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/yassnightmare2.jpg)


	2. Chapter 2

***

**Thousand Suns, Samarkand**

***

Fadl is awoken from his morose reverie by a sudden blunt, prodding sensation in his side.

He looks over his shoulder to see what this nuisance is, and there, beside his garden bench stands little Anwar, with a wooden stick in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" Fadl mumbles at Anwar, struggling to pay attention to the boy, seeing as Zainab and Lina are frolicking at the fountain in the middle of the garden, amorous amidst the shade of the orange trees, seemingly not realising they're being watched.

Presently, Zainab splashes a liberal helping of water upon Lina's white, silken shirt, so that it reveals the contours of her little breasts entirely; shrieks and giggles echo through the courtyard as Lina retaliates, using a two-handed technique to scoop up enough water to wet Zainab's ample bosom in turn.

Anwar pokes Fadl with his stick again, this time with more force and annoyance, enough to inflict genuine discomfort. "It's Tuesday, Uncle. You were supposed to teach me swordplay, remember?" he says, looking visibly hurt over Fadl having forgotten.

In fact, the poor little fellow looks like he is about to weep, his lower lip trembling: indeed, he is a sorry sight.

Suddenly overcome with sympathy, Fadl reaches out his hand. "Come here, my lad," he says, helping Anwar onto the bench beside himself, wrapping a companionable arm around the boy's shoulder.

But Anwar is now staring at the women, too. However, it doesn't seem as if it's the breasts that are now responsible for capturing his thoughts, but that the girls' sporting is reminding him of things much less pleasant.

"You, too, Uncle?" he asks.

"What do you mean?" Fadl asks, looking from Anwar to the girls himself, the sight of their happiness stabbing his side far more painfully than Anwar's prodding had done.

Anwar leans his head against Fadl's shoulder and sighs, still looking at Zainab and Lina. "You're sad, too, because they don't love you as much as you'd like for them to love you," he says. "I mean, Mother always _says_ she loves me just as much as she loves Salsabil, but I _know_ she loves Salsabil more," and now his voice begins to tremble, along with his little body. "She had a nightmare about something awful happening to Salsabil, but she never even dreams of me _at all._ Zahra has always loved me, but now she's gone, too, and now I have _no one_ to play with," he chokes, now raving from his melancholy, speaking rapidly between sobbing breaths. "Salsabil says I'm _stupid,_ and she cares only about her books, anyway; Father has no time to play with me because he is _always_ working, and now _Sonbol_ is gone, too--"

"Shh. They've only gone off for the pilgrimage," Fadl says and rubs Anwar's arm.

This pilgrimage, in fact, had been the very reason Jaffar had sent Anwar to stay with his uncle for a while, so that he would not feel as miserable, as lonely as he did at home without his friends. That, and so that Fadl might teach him the princely arts of court customs, of good horsemanship--and most importantly, how to defend himself.

"It'll be all right," Fadl says, hugging Anwar awkwardly, trying to calm him down. "They'll be back in a few months."

"God willing," Anwar murmurs, gloomily.

"God willing," Fadl murmurs, still looking at the women: they are now feeding each other slices of fruit, licking the juice from each other's fingers in a blatantly lascivious manner. "But I suppose you are right," he says quietly. "Zainab loves Lina more than she loves me, and Lina..."

Anwar looks up at him, his pale blue eyes serious and bright--it's startling how much he looks like his father had done as a child. "Lady Zainab _does_ love you, but you love Lina, too, don't you, Uncle? And you want Lina to love you, too. In fact, you'd like to marry them both!"

At that, Fadl bursts into a dry laughter. "Ah, yes," he nods. "You truly are an astute little fellow to have noticed that. She doesn't love me, as you so aptly put it, nearly as much as I'd like for her to love me," he says, a little tearful himself, now that a child's honesty has brought forth his own. "Yes, I suppose I really _would_ wish for them to love me a lot more. Like they love each other," he sighs and nods towards the women, Lina now lying with her head in Zainab's lap and Zainab leaning down to kiss her tenderly. "But isn't that always Love's way?"

"What way?"

Fadl gazes at the women for a long while, melancholy. "I mean that we are destined to love those who do not love us back, or at least not as much as we'd like them to."

Anwar shakes his head. "Mother and Father love each other just as much, so that neither loves more or less. And Lady Zainab and Lina love each other just as much. And Zahra and Sonbol--"

"And as a matter of fact, young man, I know your mother and father love _you_ just as much as they love your sister!" Fadl says, ruffling Anwar's hair. "You are a very well-loved boy, and don't you forget it. It'd break your mother's heart to hear what you've just told me."

Anwar casts down his eyes, kicking his little feet dangling over the bench's edge. "But I can't _lie,_ Uncle. I feel bad, and I feel lonely, and I can't _pretend_ I don't feel bad and lonely," he huffs, crossing the curled tips of his slippers.

"You and me both, nephew," Fadl sighs; "you and me both."

But now, Fadl slaps his hands onto his thighs with determination and straightens out his back. "There's only one thing for it, you know," he says.

"What's that?" Anwar says as Fadl gets up and helps him off the bench.

"Exercise, my boy," he says and takes Anwar by the hand. "That'll help us both forget. Let's get ourselves really sweaty and panting, so that by the time it's noon, we'll crash into bed so exhausted that we'll sleep past the afternoon prayers like right old pagans. Let's get the _fancy_ wooden swords, too; now, what do you say to that?"

Anwar's eyes fly wide. "The _curved_ ones?"

"Aye, the proper ones!" Fadl says and grins--Anwar _has_ been pestering him into teaching him the sabre for a while, and right now, the excited glow on Anwar's face is enough to banish the black clouds from Fadl's heart--at least for a while. "They're in the armoury, near the stables. Come. I'll race you!"

And it is with cries of boyish joy that Fadl and Anwar sprint towards the stables. This startles not only the birds from the orange trees, but makes Zainab--who did not even realise she was being watched--topple into the fountain from sheer surprise.

With the sounds of her splashing and shrieking, and Lina giggling and diving in behind them, uncle and nephew set out to banish their respective melancholies once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doodle of Anwar prodding Fadl with his stick, and the girls playing in the fountain, [here](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/fadlsulkanwarstick.jpg) (mildly unsafe for work).


	3. Chapter 3

***

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

Dismantling the horse, it turns out, becomes more of an emotional task than Yassamin or Jaffar could ever have predicted, despite their trepidation towards the act to begin with.

As Yassamin unscrews the brass and silver panels that serve as the horse's casing, like a butcher separating cuts from a carcass, she drops the turnscrew and the various panels several times as her hands shake too much from tension.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her gloved hand.

But in doing so, she has only managed to smear her face with engine-grease: she groans as she catches her reflection in the horse's metallic croup.

"Let me," Jaffar murmurs tenderly, wetting a fresh square of cotton with his tongue and daubing the grease off her face, he every inch the concerned mother.

Yassamin would ask him if they were doing the right thing, had she not done so several times already; the truth being that neither of them still knows for certain.

And neither, it turns out, does their little prophetess. For when they'd asked Salsabil what she had found out about God's plans while praying, she had but frowned and said that God had been unusually quiet, "Probably busy with some more pressing matter," and that she was expecting to hear back from Him on Friday: "On Fridays," she had stated with conviction, "the bridge from here to Heaven" was "less densely covered with clouds and fog."

These matter-of-fact divine utterances--fit to give heart attacks to most parents, and enough fodder for judges to send even a child to the block--are such ordinary, everyday statements for Salsabil that her family are used to them, so much so that Yassamin had been let down by the dearth of revelations this time; wherever Salsabil gets her messages from, they have always been insightful in some way or another.

Her brother, however, had but rolled his eyes and asked for Jaffar to hurry up so that they could leave for Fadl's house before noon, Anwar eager to get in as many hours of fencing practice as possible before nightfall.

Thus, with Anwar at his uncle's house and Salsabil walled up in the library with her books, Yassamin and Jaffar had retreated to the shabestan to work on the horse, dismantling it with a slow reluctance and a great deal of regret. Yassamin had envisioned a rough and hard task filled with sparks, noise, violence; Jaffar, too, had imagined the clang of a mallet and the smell of burning horse-hide, amidst the creak of twisting metal. Yet now, they find themselves unscrewing, unhinging and undoing the horse with no small amount of reverence and respect, carefully arranging its disjointed parts into the great velvet-lined chest it was supposed to be stored in for its future owner.

Gently, Jaffar lays silvern hoof and iron horseshoe into the red velvet's embrace, as if tucking a beloved child into bed.

Yet Yassamin tarries, stroking the long, beautifully wrought muzzle of the horse, now only half covered with soft white hide. She holds the horse's head--now separated from its trunk and hollowed of its mechanisms--between her hands and contemplates it; its black-and-iridescent opal eyes are as melancholy as her own.

"It's like we're exposing a child," she murmurs. "Even if the very thought is absurd, and of course our real children are more important. But--"

"Oh, Yassamin," Jaffar sighs. But he cannot bring true scolding to his voice, seeing as he is now himself overcome with sadness as he stares into the horse's open chest, about to remove the crystal matrix at its heart, the very thing that gives it life--or a semblance of it, at least. "Give me a hand," he murmurs and gestures for her to reach into the horse herself, his own voice now flat, a little terrifying to Yassamin for its blankness. "We'll do it together."

She takes a deep breath and plunges her hands into the horse's chest. With two of his and two of hers, they now come to clasp the pomegranate-sized, exquisitely cut crystal held in place by a network of gossamer-thin gold wires that serve as the horse's nervous system, transmitting impulses from this heart-brain into all its moving parts. Wrench out the crystal and the horse will be no more: the moment the delicate net of gold threads is broken, the only way to get the horse working again would be to weave the entire web anew.

"This is it," Jaffar says, not looking up at her; she wonders if that drop of moisture glittering upon the tip of his nose is a tear, or a bead of sweat. "Are you ready?"

"No," she whispers.

The bead falls into the mesh, and from the mesh onto the crystal; a farewell libation to a child never born.

"But let's do it nevertheless," she laugh-whispers.

Jaffar laughs gently as he sniffs back his tears. "Farewell, friend," he says and takes a deep breath. "I'm ready."

"One... two... three!"

With a simple tug, it's done: Yassamin's hands slip off the crystal and both she and Jaffar stagger back, having used too much force in the first place.

He stumbles, clasping the crystal in his hands, the broken threads hanging off it like so many golden cobwebs; Yassamin coughs as the minute particles of gold form a glittering cloud in the air.

Swiftly, she casts an air-rune to blow out the gold dust, so that they can breathe; Jaffar sputters as he wipes the dust off the velvet chest, about to lay the crystal into it.

"No, not in the box," Yassamin says. When Jaffar looks at her askance, she holds out her hand, reaching for the mallet with the other. "We must... well, I just want to be absolutely sure."

"So do I. But let's do it outside. I don't want to be picking crystal shards from my feet for the next three years."

"Agreed. Should we, then, just blast it instead?" she asks as they climb up the stairs into the courtyard.

"Have you got the energy?" he says as they emerge into the darkening evening.

"Plenty," she says and sets down the mallet, magic being much more preferable for this task; already, she is cheering up at the thought.

"Let's do it, then," he grins back at her, with a twinkle in his eye.

Jaffar takes the crystal and places it in the centre of the courtyard, drawing a magic circle around it with a piece of chalk; meanwhile, Yassamin busies herself casting a glamour over the whole house, to make sure no outsider can see what they're doing. When the appropriate sigils invoking Fire and Air have been drawn upon the circle, turning it into a target, as it were, they both retreat to the opposite ends of the courtyard, equidistant from the crystal: Yassamin takes charge of the element of Fire, Jaffar the Air.

Sorrow has now been replaced in Jaffar's heart by a boyish delight, since this is not at all different from how he ignites his fireworks: the same kind of colourful explosion is what they are now about to set off to destroy the crystal, and he thinks he can see Yassamin's grin even from across the courtyard.

 _Ready?_ He asks her telepathically.

_Ready. You count this time._

He does, and simultaneously, they blast the crystal with great bolts of fiery heat and gaseous air. Air and Fire kiss with explosive force as they collide, so that the ground trembles underneath Jaffar and Yassamin's feet; yet, the explosion itself remains perfectly contained within the circle's bounds, so that as the crystal now shatters into millions of shimmering particles, these particles can only escape up, up into the air, air: a glittering, shimmering, sparkling column of light now shooting above the rooftops and the trees a fountain.

Upon a whim, Jaffar flicks out a rune and gives their creation one last, splendid farewell: as Yassamin gazes in awe, the crystal-dust takes upon the shape of a winged horse against the darkening sky and gallops a full circle around the house, before finally dissolving into the air. The tiny crystals dance into the sky a myriad little stars, rushing up the dark blue firmament to join their heavenly sisters.

Yassamin comes to nestle against Jaffar, leaning her head upon his shoulder, squeezing his hand as they gaze together at the sky; silent, they stand there and count the stars, old and new. As the glamour slowly fades from around the house, the night-birds' song fills their ears with delight, their hearts now made peaceful and glad.

"There." With a final, pleasant shiver, Jaffar lets go of the last of the magic, stamping his feet a little to ground himself. "And now..." he leers and dances his fingertips up Yassamin's lower back. "I believe I had a different kind of working to perform still. Namely, the pacification of a distraught woman," he grins. "Are you still feeling distraught? Or merely perturbed?"

Yassamin dances her fingers across Jaffar's hip in turn. "Somewhat perturbed, still," she says, half melancholy, half playful. "Let me go and tuck Salsabil into bed. Else she will read into the morning."

"I'll come with you," he says and follows her to the library, a tender hand upon her shoulder. "I shan't let either of you out of my sight until..."

"Until?"

"Until God gives us a sign that danger is over... oh, what am I saying," he laughs and kisses her head; "it's not like I could take my eyes off you even if I were dead. I swear to you, my love, that even when we're both stardust, I'll still be there, watching over you," he says and points up at the stars, making a twinkling movement with his hand. "Winking at you, just like that."

"And this new constellation of yours would be terrifying all astrologers ever after!" she laughs. "The Lecherous  
Pard, terrorising all with his stare and his leer!"

"Oh, I will, my sweet; you just watch me!" With a playful growl, he chases her down the courtyard into the library, snapping his teeth at her clothes, she shrieking and giggling, glad, glad.

***

By the time they reach the love-chamber, the moon has risen high in the sky. There are no lights in the room and there's even a little dust on the bedside lantern as Yassamin lights it: they have both been much too busy and tired to come here to make love as often as they used to do. It's not that they love any less, and it's not that they are any less passionate; perhaps it's merely age that has slowed them down, made them less inclined to make the effort to retreat into this room for lovemaking, when they can curl up in her bedroom in the harem instead. Jaffar barely spends any time in his own bedroom on the men's side any more, either, and no longer sleeps in the shabestan during his engineering projects; his bones and joints ache so much in the mornings these days that he prefers waking up next to her warmth instead of having to climb up the shabestan's steep stairs the first thing in the morning.

He sits upon the bed with her and they hold hands, gazing at each other in the one little lamp's gentle light: both have been thinking of the same things, of the passing of time and yet their love enduring, even if the forms it has taken have changed shape as the seasons do, over two shared lifetimes.

"Thirteen years we've loved," she whispers.

"Speak for yourself," he grins and nuzzles her nose with his, his eyes crossed from happiness. "The years I spent adoring my faraway princess in my crysta--"

She lays a finger upon his lips. "Thirteen and more have I endured your trying to ruin the mood with your pedantry, my Barmakid pen-pusher."

"What kind of mood would please you, then, my love?" he asks, lifting her hand to his lips. "Soft and sweet, like this?" he murmurs and kisses the back of her hand, tenderly. "Or..." he turns up her palm and closes his teeth around the ball of her thumb, holding her gaze all the while as he presses down with his teeth, harder, harder into a _bite;_ oh, but how he _adores_ the way she meets his eyes unflinchingly, her pupils widening from desire.

With a soft, wounded cry, Yassamin pulls back her hand. But now, she grows suddenly silent: she casts down her eyes and spends a while rubbing the pain from her hand.

"I'm sorry," Jaffar murmurs, embracing her; "I didn't mean to--"

"It is no matter," she says and leans her head against his chest. "I think I am still shaken from this morning, that's all. Do you know those times when you wake up from a nightmare, so frightened it's as if your soul has been blown out of your body, and even if you _know_ full well it's all but a dream, the shock nevertheless makes you melancholy for the rest of the day? How you cannot shake it, no matter how happy the day?"

"I know." He caresses her hair, holding her close against his heartbeat. "The body doesn't care whether the horrors, the assaults it has suffered have been real or not; it reacts with battle-shock nevertheless. And you cannot just _think_ yourself out of battle-shock," he murmurs into her hair. "The fool I was, to even suggest ravishments when it's tenderness your body wants..."

"I want both," she says; now, she looks up at him firmly, determined. With defiance dancing in her eyes, with a will to banish the horrors, just like when she'd become a man and had taken Jaffar like a sodomite: even beneath the wildness of her animal lust, it had also been a deliberate effort on her part to replace his awful memories of the older men who'd used him.

And Jaffar can hear this thought within her; considering her, he searches her eyes and brings her hand to his lips once more. "Very well, then, my love. But only very gentle ravishments tonight. For I feel more in the mood for tenderness tonight, you see; that, and I have seen you suffer enough, my love."

Any other day, she would have been angry with him, would have thought him careless for first promising cruelty and then withholding it thus; yet tonight, she knows that his judgement of her on the basis of her reaction is right. He is not being cowardly or indecisive, seeing as he is feeling for her pulse, even now: his physician's instincts have told him more about her state than she is capable of comprehending herself at the present moment.

"I hate to say this, but you are right," she says and squeezes his hand. "No welts or bruises, then," she sighs with mock-disappointment, "but," and she takes back her hand and wags a finger in his face, "it had better be passionate!"

He bursts into laughter and with a playful growl, bites her finger until she squeaks. "Get up, then, woman!" he cries and slaps her on the arse. "I'll show you passionate, all right."

Of course: the easily removable dress. Laughing herself, now, she stands up and toes her way coquettishly onto the middle of the carpet before the bed, swaying her hips, pushing out her breasts and her hips. The way he looks at her, his eyes now wide with hunger, the love-play of the master and the slave girl awakening in them once more--oh, but she shivers even now, nevermind if his gaze has devoured her body thus hundreds, thousands of times.

How his eyes can still pierce her so, claim her so, make her feel at once this mixture of terror and delight, she will never know; the blue steel of his gaze lances her, leaves her flesh quivering upon his desire impaled, her cunny tightening with such violence around his spirit's taking of her that she staggers upon her feet.

Blue, blue, the blue of ice being run up and down her skin, sluicing across her belly and leaving her shivering with gooseflesh; blue, blue, the vertignious blue of the heavenly vaults unto which his love is soaring her again and again.

And oh, but the purr in his laughter, the shameless, thick chuckle of it; the languid felinity with which he rolls his hips as he slinks himself up from the bed; the rocking, gliding gait of a courtesan even as he looms above her the self-confident king. Seven feet tall in his turban, and he's never forgotten it, nor will he let others forget it, either: as he comes to stand before her, he clasps his hands behind his back and flicks his buttocks with his fingertips, bouncing playfully upon the balls of his feet.

"Well, then, my child," he says, grinning with such true joy that his eyes are surrounded by laughter-lines like sun-rays.

She bites her lip and gazes at her toes, curling them in the nap of the carpet. "Yes, my lord?"

He leans in to nuzzle a lock of hair away from her face, whispering hot and moist in her ear. "Methinks that tonight, I am going to take my time," he says and kisses her neck, the shivers this sends down her skin making her very womb curl with heat. "And do... this."

She gasps as he falls to his knees and brings his mouth to the fastening of her dress upon her thigh, the lowest in a row of silk bows travelling up her side from her left hip to her armpit. Now, his breath and the ribbons tickle her fingertips; still looking up at her, keeping his hands firmly crossed behind his back, he undoes the lowest bow with his teeth.

She cannot hold back a noise; half a squeak of excitement, half an exasperated groan. He but laughs: by now, her refusing to give him the satisfaction of being called a show-off _is_ his satisfaction; whatever she said or did would, now, be to him a source of impish pride.

And just like an imp, he now mouths his way to the bow at her hip, so focused upon his task that his eyelashes judder heavy against his cheeks; his nostrils flare a little as he can smell her sex, his own shiver of arousal making him stagger against her hip a little. He huffs there, looking so young and yet so serious as he tugs upon the ribbons with his teeth, like a youth set out to prove himself; it is this earnestness and his beauty that flood her with as much loving joy as they flood her with heat.

She burns with love for him, unable to hold back from cupping his cheeks, from undoing his turban to set free his hair so that she can caress it, him; he but smiles up at her and offers to her the beauty of his eyes as he unties the next bow with his teeth. So to the rhythm of her caresses does he undress her, nuzzle her, breathe into her his warmth through the silk and the naked skin revealed underneath; she had not even worn shalwars, so as not to complicate this dream of his, this wonderful dream of love to wash away all nightmares. Tug, tug and the silk falls down her body like water; pink silk flowing down pink skin, his breath now making up for his eyes' ice as he kisses her all over, covering every inch of her body with the sacred flame of his kisses, the libations of his life-breath.

 _He is washing me clean,_ she thinks; _he is washing me with his tenderness and warming me once more with his love's flame._

"Come here," she murmurs, now fervent, keen; she sinks her hands into his hair and kisses him and kisses him, letting him drink from her gladness, beckoning him to bask within the glow he has kindled in her. Now, it is her turn to undress him, to walk him backwards onto the bed; they tumble onto it a little awkwardly, neither wanting to let go of the other. Laughing, they tussle and wrestle over who gets to curl around the other; he always, always so intent on embracing her as completely as possible, entwining his entire body around her a bower of vines, heat.

Through a labyrinth of caresses they wind their way into mouthing each other's sexes; hoarse, she cries as she shudders upon his tongue, his prick slipping out of her mouth. "More," she prays, laving his sex with her kisses; tossing and squirming because this is unbearable, this slow rising and building when the bonfire's already been lit--

"Very well," he rasps and turns around, his lip dripping her own honey upon her belly as he leans in to take her mouth with a kiss.

He turns her onto her stomach, his hands as soft as silken paws; but this is a softness deceptive, as he immediately digs--are those his knuckles?--into the tendermost parts of her shoulders, on either side of her neck. From there, he draws twin lines towards and into the dip of her spine; from her spine, his kneading draws outwards between her shoulderblades, before drawing back to her spine once again. With this massaging motion, he is bearing down upon her energy centres, the clusters of her nerves, the channels that transmit sensation, humours, the life-force itself: a familiar magical pattern to stir her body into a heightened state of awareness, to render her pained, anguish-numbed flesh vibrant with life again. She moans into the mattress her delight, keens; with such force does he knead her into laxness that she cannot even claw at the sheets, cannot strain a single muscle in her body; only now does she realise just how tense she has been ever since this morning.

 _Thank you_ , she can but think at him through the warmth and the freedom and the joy he is enwrapping her in; her gratitude bubbles out of her mouth as inchoate noises, a brook. She flows, flows, all of her released by his undamming of her with his caresses; golden light swirls through her torso and her limbs from the touch of his blessed hands, curlicues from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Honey-wine, he courses through her, his laughter dancing across her spine as he traces each verteber with his kisses; drinking from her pleasure, he is reeling with it, rich with it, heavy in sack and prick.

All of her is so aglow with pleasure that she does not know when he stops massaging her, or, indeed, at which point he enters her: all of his movements are become the one caress, his entire body making love with the entirety of hers. His fingers entwine with hers, the thrill of the softness of her buttocks as his hips press against them transmitted perfectly, clearly into her mind in turn; she, too, is making love to a woman the colour of cream, the softness of velvet, the plushness of her body to him never not a marvel, a bliss.

 _And yes, I **will** think it marzipan, especially now that you're too soft to fight me,_ he trickles a laughing thought into her ear. _Soft and yet firm, so buoyant, and **fucking delicious!**_ he slither-chuckles into her mind as he slithers atop her from his hips, rolling them and pressing his cock deep, deep. Her cries of indignation, he bejewels himself with; her groans he robes himself with, the convulsions of her womb he crowns himself with. "My sweet, my sweet, my sweet," he himself murmurs, his words flowing, falling about her face like so much loosened hair; like holy incense, he swirls about her and suffuses into her.

"My beloved, beloved mine," he adores against the nape of her neck, his hands clasping her waist and her shoulder, then moving to her cunny, giving her the heel of his hand to grind into so that she does not have to move herself at all to reach release. Completely still, she but keeps on flowing, flowing back into him as waves of colour, taking him with her tremors, the contractions of her womb, the vibrations of her voice spinning on and on her bliss. So completely is she taken that she is become the taking herself; not merely the clutch of her cunny about his prick but her whole body pulling him off the brink with herself, plunging him into her ecstasy's cascade.

There is no more Jaffar, no more Yassamin, yet both of them together are become the mystery of the All in the One, Love making love unto itself--and then, there is but the floating golden ecstasy, the joy of all being silent and still.

***

"Thank you," Yassamin murmurs as they lie there facing each other, still reluctant to let go, he still nestled within her cunny.

She clasps his back, adoring the play of the coloured lantern-light upon his shoulder, the serene smile upon his face as he lies there with his eyes closed; for a long while, she watches as his hair slowly dries upon his temples, as his prick slowly softens inside of her. _My wonderful husband._

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, without opening his eyes--he is still so deeply entwined with her that he can sense her worry trying to rise to the surface once again.

"That's fair," she laughs, mostly at herself, kissing his nose. "I would you helped me sleep tonight, husband," she says, still stroking his back. "I do not trust a herb to keep me free of nightmares tonight; only you."

"All right," he mumbles back, flicking his little finger and murmuring a rune to cleanse both of them first. "Now..." he presses his forehead against hers, nuzzling her.

As his lips touch hers, he breathes out a tendril of magic, that same golden light that had so drenched him when he had invoked it in her body. Like his tongue sliding into her mouth in a kiss, the gold slips inside of her mouth and expands there, blossoming in her head with pleasure, relaxation, heat. Cleaner than wine, lighter than opium, his magic makes her shiver at first as it rushes through her, but then even her ability to be startled is gone, subdued, sunken into a sea of light.

She floats, floats; merging into his sunshine, she drifts into sleep within the gold of his embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

***

**The next day**

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

"Zahra must be in Mecca by now," Salsabil sighs to Ishtiaq, curled up as she is next to the cheetah in the prayer room while her parents take in their noonday rest. She always tries to pray instead of sleeping, as 'prayer is better than sleep,' but this time, she can do neither; she is far too agitated from having been left behind.

"If she's not yet in Mecca, she's _got_ to be in Mesopotamia by now, _at least._ "

When Ishtiaq doesn't respond, Salsabil sighs again and nestles into the crook of his hip, this time with more determination. "It's irrational and nonsensical, not to mention _impious,_ " she declares, having repeated this same statement to her parents ever since Zahra and Sonbol had decided to make the journey without her, even if she had begged and wept and finally thrown a dozen tantrums at not having been allowed to join them.

All the adults had pleaded Salsabil's age and the strain and the dangers of the journey; Anwar had been mad with worry, weeping as he had gone over all the horrible things that could happen to Zahra and Sonbol's caravan on the way. When he had been sobbing about bandits and pestilence and the perils of the deserts, clinging to the front of Zahra's travelling-cloak and soaking it with his tears, Salsabil had been clinging to the back of it, begging for Zahra to take her with her, threatening everyone with hellfire if she should die now, without ever having seen the House of God.

But it had all been to no avail. She was nine, and would have to reach puberty at least, they said, before she was strong enough to travel such long distances, pilgrimage or not.

And thus, Zahra and Sonbol had departed amidst tears and embraces and blessings, and many protective talismans and spells from Jaffar to help safeguard their journey. Anwar had become so heartbroken, so forlorn that they'd had to send him off to Fadl to give him something else to think about; Salsabil had fallen into a petulant sulk. And now, on top of all this, her mother has prohibited her from climbing anywhere higher than a foot! Meaning she could no longer go to the rooftop to pray closer to Heaven, or even study the movements of the stars the way she often would on clear nights. Even the bookshelf ladders in the library, Yassamin had magically barred her from climbing; if Salsabil so much as touched them, they'd give her hand a shock.

"What am I to do, Ishtiaq?" she asks him mournfully.

Ishtiaq but purrs and butts at the soles of Salsabil's feet, begging for scritches.

Sighing, Salsabil turns around and puts all of her frustration and determination into giving Ishtiaq the massage of his life: scritching his coat thoroughly, meticulously going over all of his body parts and naming each one in her mind to refresh her memory of cat anatomy, observing his circulation throughout his body from the cooler paws and ears to the heat of his chest and his loins.

But once she is done, she is miserably bored once again; she falls onto the floor next to Ishtiaq with a theatrical groan, her arms aching.

"What am I to do, Ishtiaq? What am I to do?"

It is then that Ishtiaq gets up and stretches with his hindquarters in the air, performing those motions humans do when they pray.

At that, a new idea takes shape in Salsabil's mind.

"Perhaps... just perhaps... if I _prayed_ hard enough..."

"Chee-up-riurrr?" Ishtiaq seems to agree as he sits next to her, as if urging her on, asking her what's keeping her.

"That's it!" she says; "I'll ask God for a miracle!"

She rolls out her prayer rug, performs a full set of prostrations, then remains sitting in a posture of supplication, closing her eyes and holding open her hands for God's grace to flow. If _this_ will not show to them the strength of her piety, her holy fervour, then nothing will. A miracle from the Almighty Himself should prove to her parents what happens to those who mistreat true believers!

She focuses her mind, just like her father has taught her to, upon that which she most desires: upon performing the pilgrimage. For true, pure desires that are for the good of the world are always rewarded, he has told her. One has to but summon up one's own power, the divine spark that is one's soul, to find one's inner light from beneath the veils of the flesh and the senses; with this power, and a well-honed will, one can become a master of the elements, of men and djinn.

And she knows exactly what to use this power for, this power that now tingles all throughout her little body, swirling in her belly, making her feel as light as air. For even the most distant corners of the Earth can be reached in but the blink of an eye by one who knows the craft of _The Rolling Up of the Earth_. She wishes and she wills that she were in Mecca, Mecca, Mecca; with Zahra, Zahra, Zahra; with all her might, she imagines the desert, the holy fountain, the spires rising tall above her, high--

"Chee-up?" Ishtiaq chirps, like a startled bird.

"Hush!" Salsabil says, still not opening her eyes.

But Ishtiaq is now very concerned indeed. "Chee-up? Chee-up? Chee-up?!" he goes on chirping, the way he does whenever he is extremely confused, desperately trying to understand his human friends.

Finally, Salsabil opens her eyes. "Ishtiaq, sh--"

But the cheetah is not beside her at all. He is _underneath_ her--in fact, she can barely see his head, just below the edge of the carpet.

It is then that she realises she is levitating.

She and the carpet are levitating, hovering three feet high in the air.

Astonished, she looks back at Ishtiaq, who is now tilting his head in bafflement.

"Chee-up?"

"Quite. But whatever are we going to tell Mother?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some doodles of Salsabil and her carpet [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/704374) Some information on The Rolling Up Of The Earth [here.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tay_al-Arz)


	5. Chapter 5

***

**Thousand Suns, Samarkand**

***

The giggles bursting from behind the guest bedroom's door twist and tear at Fadl's heart. To think that the women are _his_ guests, and dare indulge in their Lesbian debaucheries underneath _his_ roof, when _he_ is himself _right there?_  Why, is this some kind of deliberate insult from Zainab, for her to abuse his hospitality so? And pray, what has he done _this_ time, to deserve _this_ particular affront, one she very well knows boils his gall?

Zainab had refused to come without Lina, for a start, saying she was never satisfied with any servants but her own; she had even refused to make love with Fadl tonight, claiming she'd had a sudden headache.

A headache! From the woman who used to pounce him immediately every time they met! Which hadn't been nearly often enough, given that Zainab only had time to see Fadl once every few weeks, if that. Initially at least, Fadl and Zainab had both agreed that this distance helped keep their passion fresh, spare it from the eventual revulsion that excessive familiarity so often engenders in many a formerly happy couple. Yet soon enough, Fadl had begun to feel lonely, jealous, starved--and if that had been Zainab's purpose all along, then she'd most certainly succeeded at it.

 _All right, the bitch has me at her feet; now what? What on earth is she playing at?_ he wonders, chewing upon his moustache as he eavesdrops behind the bedroom door, the door itself a little ajar and only covered by a light silk curtain.

He has never been good at understanding women and their caprices, and has never been lover to one who preferred other women. Now, the few masculine women he'd known, as but comrades-in-arms, he'd understood--the sorts who rode with men into battle, and with whom you could talk and drink like men--but not Zainab. Zainab, as vain and as formidable as a queen, as bawdy as a harlot, yet face down in cunny rather than hopping from prick to prick--oh, damn it, she is a species all on her own, her mind so foreign to Fadl's that she might as well be speaking Norse to him and not Arabic.

How can he win her back? Or has he even lost her yet? It'd help a lot if he knew where he stood. Oh, but he should be a man about it, should walk in right now and demand her to put an end to this stupid ga--

Just then, a particularly excited squeak from Lina pierces the air, followed by a dirty, throaty chuckle from Zainab. Fadl's body reacts to this sound faster than his mind does; Zainab's purr goes straight to his groin, his flesh stirring instinctively in memory of the sorts of debaucheries that laughter has usually been the herald of.

"Stay still!" Zainab laughs.

"It just feels... peculiar, that's all," Lina says, the bed creaking in a way that suggests she is shifting in her position.

"It does feel a little strange at first. But you'll learn to prefer the gum over the leather," Zainab says. "Especially when it's warm like this; more like the real thing."

Lina laughs nervously. "That must be it," and now she lets out a little hiss that denotes flinching, jerking away from something. "It's a little _too_ much like a real man."

"Does it hurt, mouse-mouse?" Zainab sounds concerned. "I can command it to shrink a little, if you like. That's what's so fantastic about this one; you can change its shape and size and temperature just by telling it what to do. Isn't it marvellous?"

 _One of Jaffar's toys, then,_ Fadl grumbles in his mind. He'd known of the dolls, of course, and that Zainab was the one who sold them on for Jaffar, but this present contraption sounds less like a doll and more like a very specific body part. He cannot resist the urge to part the curtain just a fraction, and indeed, it is but an artificial prick Zainab is holding in her hand: a dildo the colour of a flushed prick, in delicate pinks and reds, even painted with veins and sporting real contours, its tip now nestled between the lips of Lina's cunny. It looks altogether monstrous, Priapic in comparison to Lina's petite, birdlike anatomy, her plump little sex only the size of a peach--hell, an apricot!

 _Listen to yourself, Fadl! You yourself the Priapus who used to enjoy splitting that exact kind of tiny little peach upon your prick night after night, year after year!_ What's gone into him? To feel as soft as this, and not only towards Zainab, but also her favourites?!

Yet, he moans inwardly: he has always had a soft spot--or, rather, a hard spot, like the one in his trousers right now--for Lina. And not just because of his weakness for Chinese girls, either: besides her looks, she has a brain in her head, a beautiful singing voice and barrelfuls of tomboyish charm besides. Just like Pari, before she--

But now, he shakes his head angrily, shakes the past and the dead from his mind and looks again through the curtain into the bedroom: towards the present, towards the living.

"Make it a little slimmer, please," Lina murmurs, and now Fadl can see she is kneeling, leaning her head into her crossed arms atop pillows, her legs spread and her little bottom raised high; Zainab is kneeling next to her, both of them as gloriously naked as the day God had created them.

The mechanism by which Zainab now shrinks the prick, as marvellous as it is, fails to capture Fadl's interest, since now his senses are flooded by something much more marvellous: the sight of the women themselves, and the loveliness of their scents. A little wetness shines upon Lina's cunny in the warm yellow lamplight, making it glisten a dark pink brushed with gold; similarly, the lovely, rippled fat upon Zainab's inner thighs is shining like alabaster from her cunny having painted her skin with her arousal. Oh, but this is a sight delicious, and he wouldn't dream of disturbing them, of ruining this performance the girls are now giving to him without their knowledge.

As Zainab commands the dildo to slim down and begins to ease it inside of Lina, Fadl's own prick but grows and grows; he has to bite his lip so as not to give himself away with a groan. His trousers--the tightest pair he owns, ones he'd worn for Zainab's pleasure--are getting all too uncomfortable for him, now; still, he wants to savour this, so he doesn't take himself out just yet. Instead, he but clutches at his prick through his trousers, feeling its pulse throb against his palm through the thin fabric. Zainab spares Lina discomfort, Fadl gives himself it: finally, he is more perverse than she.

Presently, Lina stiffens, the muscles on the backs of her thighs tightening; she shivers, and by that, Fadl can tell the dildo has reached a sensitive spot. Only the glans is past the entrance, it seems, but for someone that petite, it is a lot to take in already, Fadl supposes; yet, Lina but breathes deeply and finally laughs as Zainab kisses her hip soothingly.

"How's that, mouse-mouse?" Zainab asks.

"It's fine," Lina mumbles into her arms, her voice now a little creakier from heat; "go on," she says.

"You look _delicious,_ " Zainab groans, and now, her head comes to obscure Lina's cunny from Fadl's view and Lina yelps loudly, moans, squeaks.

Yet these sounds, and the soft laps and sucks of Zainab's mouth upon Lina's cunny are even better, and Fadl isn't complaining about how he can now see Zainab's cunny better, too, she already stroking herself with abandon. Fadl is sure a little moan escapes from his mouth, too, yet he feels safe, considering how loud the women now are as Zainab begins to suck and fuck Lina in earnest. Strings of Zainab's sap drip onto the sheets, her thighs jiggling, the bed creaking as she takes Lina with the dildo; now, Lina is clutching at the pillows with both hands, whimpering into them.

For long moments, they continue thus, the air thickening with the scent of their arousal; the only sound in the room being Lina's soft panting and moaning and the slick-slick-slick of the dildo gliding in and out of her cunny.

"You little minx!" Zainab finally cries and pulls back, slapping Lina on the rump, then pushing the dildo in so deep that Lina is thrown forwards, sputtering and gasping. "You already came once _at least,_ and didn't tell me!" Zainab grumbles and lets go of the dildo. "I was going to make you wait, you little--"

"Twice!" Lina laughs mischievously, laughs so hard that the dildo slips out of her, her cunny slurping and spraying some sap onto Zainab's face; Zainab, too, bursts into laughter.

"I'm sorry," Lina cackles and flops onto her left side, flushed, heaving.

"No, you're not," Zainab murmurs and lies down with her, facing her; she kisses Lina slowly, letting Lina taste herself from her lips. "Now, what am I going to do with you?" she purrs and slips her left thigh between Lina's, cupping her little arse with her hand, rutting up against her cunny with such intent her bangles rattle. "Hmm?" Zainab asks as she forces Lina to ride her thigh, smacking Lina's arse. "I think you owe me a little bit of this," she croons, squeezing and slapping Lina's arse, spreading it, clawing at it as Lina but moans against her enormous breasts. "How about we take a look at just how deep you can take it up here," she pushes a finger between Lina's buttocks, "right here, in your little _arse?_ "

"Please!" Lina cries and kisses Zainab's breasts, clutching at them, sucking at her nipples, Zainab herself purring even louder, her cunny swollen and slick between her legs. How she can not touch herself is beyond Fadl, who has now given up and taken his prick out, trying to stroke himself slowly but failing.

Zainab but chuckles again, licks at two of her fingers and returns them to Lina's arse. She lifts Lina's leg even higher and now, shoves those fingers into her arse roughly, mercilessly, making Lina mewl against her body, clearly loving her torment. Zainab's thigh is completely wet, now, so wet that Lina is sliding back and forth upon it, her cunny spread out astride it beautifully as Zainab takes her with her fingers, guiding her movements with ease.

"What do you say?" Zainab whispers loudly, wetly into Lina's ear, never ceasing in her taking of her. "Shall we see how wide we can make you _gape?_ "

Lina's only answer is a whimper into Zainab's shoulder. "Please," she moans, deliberately making her voice more sugared, small; Fadl's prick leaps at the sound, and he can swear Zainab's cunny lifts a little at this, too.

"Good girl," Zainab purrs, taking Lina by the chin, gifting her with a licking, languorous kiss, a kiss so masterful Lina's thighs tremble and clutch about Zainab's own.

Satisfied, Zainab pulls back, her eyes slitted with wickedness, stroking Lina's lower lip with her thumb. "Get on your knees. As you were before."

All but purring, now, Lina turns around slowly, moving into her former position with a honeyed sway; her limbs relaxed by her satiation, her cunny now even more flushed and wet.

"And now?" Lina asks over her shoulder, grinning, rocking her hips in a tease, her arse and cunny pushed out in offering.

"Perfect," Zainab says and kneels on her left, balancing a little jar of cream on Lina's back.

This has the effect of stilling Lina's swaying, she now tensing as she balances the jar upon the small of her back; she trembles with gooseflesh as Zainab now uses the cream to slicken her. As Zainab slips two fingers inside of her arse and swirls them, Lina bites her lip, her eyes closed, her chin-length hair sticking to her cheeks; she may be moaning, but Fadl can only hear the tinkling of the girls' anklets and bracelets as Zainab prepares her for her taking.

"How does that feel?" Zainab asks, now in a voice more soft, tender. And now that she's moved to the side, Fadl can see Lina is rubbing her cunny; she is so wet her fingers are glistening, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Ready," Lina says from between her teeth, pushing her arse out into Zainab's thrusts, laying her head and shoulders down on the bed to better maintain her position. "Go on."

Zainab starts to push the dildo into her arse with soft little dips at first, gently stretching Lina's anus into opening for her. It's a tenderness Fadl didn't think was possible for Zainab to feel, let alone display; whenever Zainab had been doing something like this to him, she had been deliberately cruel, meaning to punish, wound. That she would be so full of care for Lina--even now, she stops immediately if Lina tenses--both breaks his heart but also fills him with an even worse a jealousy.

Is this, then, only possible for Zainab when she makes love to other women? Is her lovemaking with men forever doomed to be full of bitterness and tension, the way it is with him? Because there is but care and ease between the two women here, a sweetness born from a long and happy love affair; the act of sodomy, always tinged with a kind of brutality, is tender the way they perform it, here. 

Once the dildo's glans slides fully inside of Lina she wails into the pillows, her hand flying on her cunny, she sobbing like a madwoman; it's as if she could not bear it. Yet Zainab seems to be familiar with this reaction: she but smiles knowingly and continues to move the prick inside of Lina's arse, sliding it gently back and forth, rewarded by a cry every time she presses in deep. _What was it that Jaffar always said about sodomy? That it was the penetrator's staying still that hurt the most for the recipient, so a continuous movement was far better for dissolving the initial pain and discomfort?_ he wonders. In any case, that discomfort seems to have passed, Lina now so aroused Fadl can see even the very mouth of her sex opening and closing: all of her shudders as if in seizure, and a drop of her sap falls from her cunny onto the bed. That drop might as well have landed on Fadl's prick, so does it leap in his hand at the sight; now, he has to bite his fist to suffocate a moan. God, never has he seen the like!

"Are you close? You must tell me this time," Zainab says and slaps Lina upon both buttocks, dragging the dildo out so that only its tip remains nestled within Lina's arse, making the flesh around it bulge out grotesquely. "The truth, Lina."

"Almost," Lina says, biting her lip, squeezing her distended clitoris between her fingers, her folds beading from wetness, making Fadl's mouth water.

"Let's see..." Zainab says playfully, tilting her head. She pulls the dildo out entirely, spreading Lina's arse with her other hand: for a moment, Lina's arse gapes a little, then immediately closes into a little bud once more. "But that's definitely not wide enough," Zainab tuts in mock-disapproval. "I need to see you wide open, my child."

"Then let me come," Lina says, bold, mischievous, her laughter snapped in half by a yelp as Zainab slides the dildo inside of her arse once more. "That'll--oh God--that'll do it--!"

"Come on, then!" Zainab says and smacks her arse again with her free hand, over and over; Lina shudders as Zainab proceeds to turn her arse red with the slaps, Lina deriving exquisite pleasure from this beating, going by her noises and her trembling. Zainab is panting by now, her voice thick as she smacks her once more, crying "Come for me, Lina; come!"

"Oh--please, please--"

And now Lina collapses onto her belly, unable to hold herself up any longer; Zainab follows her without once taking the dildo out of her arse, continuing to take Lina as she falls onto her hands and begins to ride them frantically, now shrieking ever louder in that way singing-girls do to bring themselves to release. It's a specific collection of syllables, ones both guttural and nasal, short and long, high and deep: an orgasm-song, if you will.

And this, this very litany is what now makes a shock go through Fadl, as if a bucket of cold water had just been poured over him: for it is the exact same one Pari had used when Fadl had been inside of her. His body is shaken by awful, nauseating chills even as Lina writhes herself into release, shrieking so loudly it pierces his ears; he lets out a gasp as if a man stabbed, a groan of one dying as he, too, comes in his fist.

But there's no pleasure to his release, only a flood of terrible sorrow.

 _Pari, Pari, Pari..._ he turns away from the women, leans his forehead against the stone wall and weeps, his climax and the shock that'd followed it having broken through his self-control. Even as the girls continue to let out noises of delight--Zainab exclaiming in appreciation at just how open Lina's arse is, going by the sounds of it--he claws at the wall with one hand, squeezing his prick with a punishing grip to give himself pain, not even himself knowing why. Perhaps to drown out the pain of memory, perhaps to drown out the pain of the present moment, the pain of the ones he loves always being taken away from him, always--

_God, Fadl, listen to yourself! What did your Shaykh tell you about needing to live in the present moment? What would he think if he saw you now, you miserable wretch? Would you let him down like this, by letting the horrors of your past, your own wounds cripple you like this, when love and pleasure are offered before you on a platter?_

Would he let Harun ruin this? Would he let Zainab herself ruin this? Is he going to give her that satisfaction?

No, he isn't. He is going to go in there, going to demand that the girls let him join in, he thinks--

\--yet, now, he pauses with his hand upon the curtain.

If he did go in, now, would he not risk angering Zainab forever? Offending Lina so that he would never have a chance to--perhaps--share in their love, later?

As he stands there, still considering, not knowing whether he is a spineless coward or a brilliant strategist, the girls but continue in their play, still completely oblivious to him, the storm of arousal and grief now raging inside of him. Lina bends over again and now, her arse gapes most deliciously: it is a beautiful, beautiful round hole into which Zainab now dips her tongue, making Lina giggle and shriek in delight. A sight that on any other occasion, would make Fadl harden again, yet now...

 _Later, Fadl,_ he thinks at himself as he wipes himself with his handkerchief and laces up his trousers. _Later. You will have time. You will confront Zainab about this tomorrow. With your prick inside her cunny if needs be, your body and your love pinning her down so that she cannot squirm away._

He leaves the girls as he'd found them: giggling and kissing and nuzzling, happy in their play. The dark cloud of his own melancholy, he carries over himself into his own bedchamber.

Mechanically, he undresses himself, washes, applies his evening kohl and slips into a nightgown; yet even as he climbs into bed, he knows he will not sleep well tonight. He tosses and he turns--it had been too early for him to go to sleep, anyway--staring at the canopies, trying to banish from his mind the memories that batter at the gates of his mind like a horde of berserkers. Before his mind's eye hover the faces of Pari, of Harun, of Jaffar... and then, little Ali, who'd had Pari's eyes, twinkling with the same mischief as hers.

And now, he cannot hold back tears any longer, for they are already flowing down his face into his ears and he cannot breathe. He turns around to gasp for breath, but only ends up sobbing into his pillow, sobbing hopelessly, a wreck; he moans and beats the pillows, shouting into them all his rage, all his loneliness, all his sorrow.

Suddenly, there's a loud, metallic clatter at his door.

He bolts up in bed, his hand immediately upon the sword he always keeps underneath his pillow.

"Show yourself!" he cries, throwing open the lantern he had dimmed for the night, so that its light now falls upon the intruder.

"U-uncle Fadl?"

Anwar.

Little Anwar, pulling up the washbowl he had stumbled into in the night. He looks frightened, yet determined to tell him something.

Fadl sighs and rolls his eyes, sheathing his sword. "Come, boy, what is it?" he asks and pats the bed beside him.

"I couldn't sleep," Anwar says and climbs into the bed next to him. "Uncle, what's wrong?" he asks when he notices Fadl has been crying.

His kohl must be smeared all over his face, Fadl realises, and he wipes his face with his sleeve, uncaring of staining it. "I had a bad dream."

"Me too!" Anwar says, astonished. "What was yours about, Uncle? I dreamt that Zahra and Sonbol died," he says, still obviously shaken from the dream. "It felt so real, too."

"My dream was similar. It was about the woman I loved, the mother of your little cousin. And how they died," he says, unable to look Anwar in the eye.

"I remember that! Ali and Pari!" Anwar says brightly, proud of his memory--then lowers his head in shame, realising this is not something one should be particularly proud of. "I'm sorry, Uncle."

"Come here," Fadl sighs and wraps an arm around Anwar, gathering him into his arms. "We are two sorry lads tonight, are we not? Both mourning, both alone."

"How can we be alone when we are together, right now?" Anwar asks, playing with the tassels of Fadl's robe.

"That is a very good question, my boy," Fadl laughs, ruffling Anwar's hair. "You can sleep next to me if you like."

"Really?" Anwar's face lights up.

"Yes. I can tell you a story if you like. Something from the old legends."

"Oh, yes, please!" Anwar says in delight, immediately fluffing up a cushion and claiming half the blanket as he settles down comfortably, a rapt audience. "Tell me about the Simurgh. And how she found the albino boy."

"Oh, Zal?" Fadl says, his body now overcome with warmth, a flash of genuine happiness and delight. "That was little Ali's favourite story, too."

And perhaps this way, Fadl can get back something he had lost: he makes himself comfortable, too, a new joy lighting up his soul as he begins to tell Anwar the story; all the old emphases, cries, gestures come back to him as if it had been but yesterday when he'd last told his son the same tale. His elaborate list of all the colours of the Simurgh's feathers, of all the herbs that grow atop the trees and the mountains, the names of the Simurgh's own chicks: Anwar's eyes glowing with delight and his face flushing in joy as he giggles at his uncle's exaggerated intonations and voices.

Long into the night do they keep weaving this particular rendition of the tale, Anwar interrupting him with interjections of his own when Fadl's story differs from the version his parents had told him; Fadl laughing from the bottom of his heart when Anwar experiments with different bird squeaks to imitate the hungry chicks.

And when the tale is over, and Zal has wandered off to new adventures, uncle and nephew curl up together underneath the one blanket, both exhausted from sorrow and joy as they finally drift into a sleep deep and rewarding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some doodles of Fadl's tragic backstory [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/703409). Also, have a doodle of Fadl telling Anwar his bedtime story [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/707944).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Zahra's exclamation of "Mashallah" literally means "God has willed it," but it's used as an interjection of surprise or approval, an acknowledgement of God's will working in the world. Like "mashallah, that's a strange coincidence," or "mashallah, that's a beautiful robe." In Zahra's case, here, it's more like a mix of "the Lord moves in mysterious ways" and "This has to be God's will."

***

**Mecca**

***

"Does your father know you're here?" Sonbol asks after he and Zahra have recovered from their shock, at least somewhat.

For a family of magicians or not, it's not every day that a little girl who is supposed to be in Samarkand suddenly appears at a caravanserai on the outskirts of Mecca.

"No." Salsabil--she and her carpet now firmly seated on the floor of Zahra and Sonbol's small room--stares at her knees and plays with the nap of the carpet.

"No?" Sonbol looks at her sternly. "So they did not send you here? You left on your own, just like that?"

Salsabil lifts her head, defiant. "God must approve of this, mustn't He? He would not have heeded my prayer otherwise," she says, jutting out her chin.

"Mashallah," Zahra sighs, shaking her head. "Did you fly all this way?"

"No... I mean, well... it just..." Salsabil frowns. "I just thought of where I wanted to be, concentrated really, really hard and it seemed as if the entire world flew past," she says quietly. "Like a bird, I suppose, but faster. Forests, deserts, rivers and then I was just... here. Inside this room," she says, looking at the walls around herself, herself amazed at what had happened. "I did not feel that wall over there, at all," she points around the room, "or the roof as I went through it. It's just as you saw it; but a blink of an eye, and I was here."

As Sonbol and Zahra exchange troubled glances, a cold pool of anxiety forms in Salsabil's belly. This is not quite the warm welcome she had expected, a happy reunion filled with laughter, tears of joy, embraces. And as the downstairs tavern echoes with the noises of breaking glass and what sounds like a brawl between drunken men, Salsabil shudders, starting to truly realise the dangers her parents and her brother had warned her about.

She stares at the carpet again, overcome with emotion, trying so very hard not to cry, yet her voice wavers. "I missed you so much," she says, her voice high, barely audible, tears rising into her throat. "And I wanted--I wanted--"

At that, Zahra relents, bursting out in a flood of compassion. "My poor child!" she cries, taking Salsabil into her arms, cradling her against the warm softness of her bosom, the white wool of her pilgrim's robes. "Come here." She lifts Salsabil up as if she were still a babe, gathering her close upon the worn mattress that serves as her and Sonbol's bed; even Sonbol now sighs and puts his arms around the frightened girl, both of them hugging her, rocking her as she weeps out her terror and her exhaustion.

"Have you eaten at all?" Zahra asks when Salsabil's sobs have finally quieted down, tucking a strand of hair behind Salsabil's ear; her hair is now frizzy around her face, and her cap and veil are dangling precariously off her head.

"A little," Salsabil mumbles. "I did not have any appetite; I missed you so much."

"Well, now that you're here, we must get you washed and fed," Zahra says, taking charge of the situation, the pilgrim turned stewardess of a great household once more. "Sonbol, get the poor girl something from downstairs."

"All right," Sonbol says with a grimace, as he gets up with some difficulty. This does not escape Salsabil, and she feels guilty: an old, already travel-worn man having to run errands for her sake? But before she can say it is no matter, that she can wait until breakfast, Sonbol lifts his hand.

"One thing first. When are you going back, my child? You do realise your mother and father must be mad with worry by now?"

"Well..." ashamed, Salsabil does not want to look at Sonbol, again nestling her face into the safety of Zahra's robes. "Have you been to God's House yet? Circumambulated the Kaaba, kissed the Black Stone? Stoned the Devil?"

"We've only just arrived today, my child," Zahra says and pets her hair. "We'll start tomorrow."

"Then I will do it with you!" Salsabil cries. "This _must_ be why God allowed me to come here today! So we could all go together!"

"But that will take days!" Sonbol groans and shakes his head, leaning heavily on his walking staff. "We really should find a way to send word to your parents first, to at least let them know you are safe."

"Did Father not give you a talisman to do just that?" Salsabil asks Zahra, finally lifting up her head.

"Yes, the mirror," Zahra sighs and begins to rummage around in the folds of her robes. "It was only for emergencies."

"This _is_ an emergency," Sonbol says gravely as the sounds of the brawl continue; he doesn't look too happy about needing to go downstairs.

"Sit down," Zahra says with a wave of her hand, without looking up at Sonbol. "This might take a while."

"All right," Sonbol says, relieved; he gathers up his robes and tiptoes his way onto the mattress, carefully avoiding Salsabil's carpet lest it fly him off to Samarkand against his will. "We will ask them if you can stay. But if your father tells you to come back home, little lady," he wags a gnarled ebony finger at Salsabil, "you will do as he says, and that's that! It is true that a good Muslim is pious above all else, yes; but if she is still a child, she should also respect her parents as she would God Himself. And you should know this, daughter of Yassamin. Even prayer is not an excuse to disobey a parent's command."

"I know, I know," Salsabil sighs and rolls her eyes as she sits down next to Zahra, smoothing out her hair and pinning her veil and cap back onto her head.

Zahra has, finally, found the mirror. It looks like an ordinary, round hand mirror only three inches wide, albeit far too ornate to pass for a commoner's, what with its back gilded and set with four emeralds: indeed, it is a relic from the time Zahra was still the chamberlainess of the royal harem in Baghdad. She lays it down carefully in the middle of the bed, and all gather around it to observe.

"Now, let's see," Zahra murmurs, smoothing out the blanket around the mirror. She closes her eyes, summoning the verses she needs to recite from memory--neither she or Jaffar had dared risk write such spells down on paper for fear of them getting into the wrong hands. She closes her eyes, her hands resting upon her knees with her palms upwards, as if in prayer; her lips move soundlessly as she recites the spell.

Suddenly, the mirror begins to expand, widen until it's the size of a large platter, about fifteen inches wide; Sonbol is a little taken aback, never quite used to Jaffar's magics even after all these years. Salsabil, however, doesn't bat an eyelid; rather, she wonders about the exact method by which this marvellous, effortless expansion of matter is so easily accomplished. As they watch, the surface of the mirror becomes clearer and clearer, vitrifying itself from burnished silver into what looks like transparent glass; finally, the blurred reflection dissolves into a view of the master bedchamber on the men's side of The Blue House, seemingly seen through Jaffar's dressing table mirror, facing his bed.

But the master of the house himself, however, is nowhere to be seen.

"Mrr?" a pair of little black ears peeks over the mirror's edge on the Samarkand side.

"Mustafa!" Salsabil cries. "Here, Mustafa!" she coos to the cat, like she would when offering him treats.

Soon, the entire cat emerges into view, Mustafa sniffing at the mirror, purring loudly as he recognises his human friends.

"Good boy, Mustafa!" Salsabil says, tapping at the mirror; Mustafa butts his head against it. "Can you take a message to Father?"

Mustafa but keeps on purring, butting at the mirror ever harder; now, he tries to peek around it, wondering why on earth he cannot feel Salsabil's scritches.

"Say 'meaow,' Mustafa!" Sonbol offers. "Meaow?" he imitates. "Meaow?"

Mustafa keeps looking at everyone, still purring, completely baffled. He swishes his tail in annoyance, yet doesn't make a noise louder than a querying, rising note of "Urrrrr?" amidst his purrs.

"Mustafa, please!" Salsabil balls her hands into fists. "When I get home, I promise I'll give you an entire, fat pullet--"

It is then that Mustafa swishes his tail once more and knocks a little ceramic bowl off Jaffar's dressing table; all in Mecca burst into a loud cheer.

"Did you hear that?" Jaffar's voice can now be heard in the corridor; by the sounds of it, he is running towards the bedroom. "Now, see what happens when you keep letting cats inside the house when I'm working! How many times--"

And now, Yassamin yanks back the door-curtain, broom in hand, yelling right back into the corridor. "You would deny me even the love of cats when my best friend is away, you beast? And with you buried in the shabestan all day--"

Sighing, Jaffar pushes past her into the room. "Let me see what it was. If it was a bottle of acid, we may no longer _have_ a cat! I--"

And now, he stops in his tracks.

"Oh."

Indeed, he has just seen his daughter, his steward and his stewardess staring back at him through his mirror.

"Salsabil!" Yassamin screams, the broom clattering onto the floor as she rushes to the mirror, clasping it with her hands in a mixture of terror and anger. "Where are you?!"

With uncharacteristic reticence, Salsabil looks to Zahra, who now squeezes Salsabil by the hand, but still looks grave.

"We are in Mecca, mistress. She is safe."

"How in the Devil did you get there?!" Jaffar sputters, then looks at Sonbol. "We've kept her from the library, made sure there were no flying automatons anywhere in the house _and_ blocked all the doors and windows with _triple_ the amount of runes!"

In fact, Jaffar is clearly impressed, but does not want to show this to Yassamin, although it's obvious from her expression that she has noticed this--she is looking daggers at both Jaffar and Salsabil.

"I think you'd better tell them what you told us, Salsabil," Zahra says.

Salsabil, quietly, does: that she does not know any more than they do, and that it can't have been anything except her ardent faith that had made such a feat possible.

"God's will?" Yassamin says quietly, her eyes still flickering from emotion, she still not knowing what to think. "Is it God's will, then, that my daughter should fly? Meaning--" her voice breaks, now, and she blanches. With a soft, pained cry, she falls onto her knees upon the cushions before the low table, holding her face in her hands.

Jaffar kneels beside her, his hand awkwardly upon her shoulder. "It doesn't have to have any connection with your nightmare," he says, yet immediately winces, knowing just how condescending he must sound. "I am sorry," he murmurs, looking at the mirror again. "Is this it, then?" he murmurs. "God's will? That she should perform the pilgrimage with you?"

Sonbol and Zahra exchange glances.

"Well, it _would_ be impious to deny it," Salsabil mumbles defiantly, staring at her knees.

"I didn't even notice you were gone," Yassamin says, her eyes now glistening with sorrow. "I could have lost you," she chokes, "and might not have known for... God knows how long."

"Maybe that's a good sign," Jaffar says. "That you _didn't_ have a bad feeling, a bad omen."

"Says the man who insists I am always too afraid, even when there is no danger," Yassamin laughs bitterly, now swallowing back a sob.

"Mother..." Salsabil says, pressing her little hand to the mirror. "Please don't be sad. I am sorry. I really am."

Yassamin smiles through damp eyes, pressing her hand against Salsabil's. "My little saint," she whispers, shaking her head in love, sorrow and awe. "You don't even know your own powers."

"Do you... _want_ me to come back?" Salsabil asks, obviously hating the very thought, even if she is genuinely sorry.

Yassamin sighs and closes her eyes--now, the tears that had been filling her eyes finally fall onto her cheeks, drawing upon her face two black kohl-streaks, not unlike a cheetah's markings. "What does it matter what _I_ want, when the Almighty has, quite clearly, made His will known?" she says, a little bitter, with a touch of madness to the soft laugh she now lets out, not looking into Salsabil's eyes.

"Well, since she _is_ already there..." Jaffar says carefully, rubbing Yassamin's back. "It would seem absurd to deny her the pilgrimage now."

"I agree," Yassamin rushes to add, a little forcefully; it is clear she is bending her own thoughts to God's will as a good believer should, even if all of her maternal instincts rebel against it. "But you are coming home _immediately_ afterwards," she adds, looking up at the mirror sternly. "The same way you came, and you will take Sonbol and Zahra with you on that carpet, so that none of you will have to take the caravan again. Is that clear?"

Sonbol and Zahra look delighted, relieved, if a little uneasy. "We will guard the carpet with our lives," Sonbol adds. "You can be sure of it."

"Do you know, I doubt the carpet itself is that important," Jaffar murmurs, tapping at his lower lip with a finger, then pointing the finger at Salsabil. "Only the faith of the one operating it. I must say I am quite impressed."

"That's enough praise," Zahra says--indeed, Salsabil is so ecstatic she does not even notice Zahra ruffling her head. "Look at how she's beaming; it's going into her head."

"Just don't tell anyone about this!" Yassamin says. "I mean it. You could be in great danger if anyone found out."

"Yes," Jaffar laughs; "think of it. If _Zainab_ hears Salsabil's faith can move mountains, she'll try to profit from it. Salsabil's Flying Carpet Tours; fifty dinars to Mecca and back, meals included!" Jaffar looks at Salsabil with a grimace. "And you don't want _that,_ now do you?"

Salsabil winces back. "Don't blaspheme, Father!"

"There is a grain of truth to your father's jesting, my child," Sonbol says grimly, then lowers his voice to a whisper, barely audible. "For a miniature saint with magical powers, the slavers would pay enormous amounts of mo--"

"Enough!" Yassamin cries, outraged. "Don't make me change my mind," she says, her eyes blazing.

Sonbol but sighs and pulls back, raising his eyebrow: they all know he has spoken the truth.

"Then, it is settled," Jaffar says with a nod. "You are to perform the pilgrimage with Salsabil. But you _must_ speak to us every day, so that we know you are safe."

"We will, master," Sonbol bows, Zahra bowing with him.

"Remember us in your prayers," Yassamin says, lifting her hand to the mirror once more.

"I always do, Mother," Salsabil says, pressing her hand tight against Yassamin's, her voice wavering now, serious. "But think of it: this time, my prayers will be even _more_ powerful, because we're as close to God as can be!" she beams.

Yassamin cannot help but smile. "I love you, my daughter." She looks up at Zahra and Sonbol. "All of you. May God bless you and keep you all safe."

"We love all of you, too!" Salsabil all but shouts at the mirror, now, so excited she can barely stay still. This is happening--this is really happening! Her parents are allowing her to perform the pilgrimage! "Thank you so much! So much, oh, Father, Mother--!"

"It makes us happy to see you happy, my little shaykha," Jaffar says, smiling as Salsabil kisses the mirror with fervour. "You have my love, too--magnified by your happiness, my child," he says, kissing the mirror himself.

"We'll make it the greatest, most perfectly performed pilgrimage _ever,_ you'll see!" Salsabil squeaks with joy, bouncing in her seat. "Goodbye, Mother! Goodbye, Father!" she cries, waving with both hands as her parents' tearful faces fade in the mirror, and Zahra's mirror shrinks back into its ordinary size. "You'll see, you'll see! In the name of God, the most merciful, the most clement..."

"Up we go, my little dervish!" Sonbol says, lifting Salsabil by the arms and lowering her onto the reed mat by the bed. "You spin your excitement out there, while I get you some sustenance."

"Take this," Zahra says.

"What?" Sonbol turns back at the door.

"This." Zahra blows him a kiss.

This kiss, it turns out, is a glamour. Before their very eyes, Sonbol turns into a great, muscular giant, his skin paling until he appears an Arab: complete with green turban, so as to make it look as if he were from the Prophet's clan. All in all, a man inspiring more immediate respect in front of the riff-raff downstairs than a frail, old Ethiopian eunuch would.

Sonbol shudders, shaking himself a little, scratching his flank as if he were wearing a rough, new suit. "I will _never_ get used to this thing. Never, ever!"

Zahra laughs and hands him some coins. "Get us a proper meal, my love; we have a long day ahead of us."

***

**Moments later**

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

With an ear-piercing scream of rage, Yassamin storms into the kitchen, where Jaffar is already waiting and holding up a dozen plates they've saved up for this very purpose. Namely, Yassamin's anger: one by one, she yanks a plate from Jaffar's hands and, shrieking with fury at the top of her lungs, hurls it against whatever hard surface she fancies, smashing the crockery into a thousand pieces.

"Don't you dare!" she shouts at Jaffar when she sees him form the first syllables of a cleansing-spell before she is even through the full set of plates; she wants to see every little shard, the chaos, the destruction around her so that she can feel her rage is fully sated. Thus, she screams, shouts, shatters one plate after another, hurls and smashes and roars until she is sore in the throat and in the arms, possibly with a sprained shoulder, falling down to slouch on the floor at Jaffar's feet, panting.

"Feeling better?" Jaffar asks, kicking a shard aside--he is glad he managed to tidy the floor underneath her with a rune just before her knees hit it.

"Your children are as stubborn and as devious as you are," she groans from underneath her hair, now drooping in a wild mess over her face, her ornaments dangling from it. " _Barmakids,_ " she quotes an old saying, " _the most devious clan known to man! Going wherever they please; no one can stop them, neither men nor angels._ "

"Ah, but _that_ was thanks to our learning and our money," Jaffar says, leaning back against the windowframe. "This is the first time one of us has made it somewhere with _piety._ "

"Shut up and take me," Yassamin mutters from underneath her hair, starting to undo the laces of her shalwars.

Calmly, Jaffar waves his hand, murmurs an air-rune to scoop up the pottery shards and funnels them all neatly into the compost bin.

"There," he says and dusts his hands. "Now, let's see," he says, businesslike as he starts to undo his drawers. "The table or the floor, my love?"

But she is already upon him, taking him into her mouth, clawing at his thighs and arse as if her sanity depended upon him--and indeed, on days like these, it does.

"My sweet love," he sighs, with great melancholy, his hands tender in her hair even as she sucks him into hardness: he knows that she is deliberately choking herself, so as to give herself something so physically overwhelming that it would overcome the pain in her heart.

It's not easy for Jaffar to assume the role of the stern ravisher, now, even if he knows just how much his Yassamin needs it; neither of them is quite in the mood, but during times like these, this ritual is all they have. And neither of them is foolish enough to deny the power of such intensely physical acts as rough lovemaking to cleanse, rearrange the mind: thus, he focuses himself, all of himself into his prick, into doing this for both their sakes.

"Lie down," he murmurs, lifting her gently onto the low table, gentler than what she would like, but his back aches.

She hasn't got the heart to complain; "Hurry," she murmurs, wraps her arms around him and kisses him deeply, hungrily as she undoes his turban.

And oh, the delight that sparks in her eyes as he rips off her shalwars and slaps her all over her arse, her belly, her thighs; right now, she needs to hear the sound of tearing fabric, needs to feel the impact of his hands upon her flesh, casting out all sorrow from her.

"Take the oil," she says and levitates a little bottle into his hand; there's no use in trying to get her wet and soft when she is this upset, and trying to take her cunny when it's not ready would only hurt her. Thus, only sodomy will do: because of its intense effects upon the nerves, its ability to completely rearrange one's humours, and because of how fast it can bring to her the release she needs.

They struggle there for a while, forehead against forehead, unravelled hair tangling in unravelled hair. He labours to get his prick hard enough to take her, then to find the right angle to enter her arse; yet it is a task full of love and tender care.

Giving to him breath from her mouth, warmth from her flesh, clasping his back with her feet she urges him on until at last, he slips inside of her. It is a penetration clumsy, painful, a stab, making her skin prickle with both gooseflesh and cold sweat; yet it is exactly what she needs right now, greedy for this raw, brutal impalement, the goring of her sorrow upon the unrelenting force of his love.

Teeth clashing, arms and legs trembling, they beat their bodies together as one; her first release is so sudden and so violent she is nauseous from it, even as she shouts hoarse into his shoulder, clinging onto his neck with both arms. On and on does he take her until she is wet against his pudendum, she stroking her cunny as he slams himself into her guts deep, deep; he so burying himself into her innards that he makes her sob and spasm against his belly with every blow.

Her senses so heightened, his senses just as keen now from the rut, they can now feel the scents of the kitchen's herbs joining their lovemaking from their rafters, come to offer them their caresses: the vibrance of basil breathing into their lungs a new vitality, the sweet coolness of mint running its fingers up the backs of their thighs, the soothing calm of rosemary wrapping them in its veils serene.

A garden, a green garden heaving with life all around them, green leaves whispering about them their blessings: into this wonderful fragrance do they tumble, tumble onto the floor still joined with each other, he surging towards release within this herbal bower. As he strains on top of her, his back a bow, he breathes out a rune and releases handfuls of leaves from the rafters, then lets go: in a rain of green does he find his end in her, shoot his self into her in a shower of fragrance, green and gold.

 _Thank you,_ she sighs telepathically, too tired to speak as she lies there, curled up in his arms.

Drowsy, glowing, he looks at her with a smile, his eyes half-closed. _The best kind of magic,_ he mumbles into her mind.

 _Speaking of which,_ she says and levitates their discarded clothes to cover her legs and hips, unwilling to leave his embrace even if it's getting cold. _That's better. Where do you think Salsab--_

He lifts his finger to her lips, tender. "Hush."

She groans and closes her eyes. "Put me to sleep. Please."

"All right," he says and sits up, offering to her his hand. "But as Sonbol is away, we can't carry you, old wife; I am afraid I have no energy left to levitate you to bed. Come."

Groaning together, they get up and clean themselves; after she has rearranged her ripped clothes to at least some semblance of decency, she hugs him tight. "I did not mean to sound ungrateful. Thank you, my love; this helped, helped so much."

He smiles wistfully and kisses her forehead, adjusting her brow-band. "I am glad. God knows I needed that, too." He hugs her back, squeezing her against his body, holding her so tight it's as if he wished to draw her inside of his body, shelter her there as a mother a babe in her womb.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaffar and Yassamin making love in a shower of herbs [here.](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/herbshower.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

***

**Thousand Suns, Samarkand**

***

"Stop!" Anwar screams, stilling in shock, dropping his wooden sword and shield; even through the loud clatter both make against the tiles of the courtyard, his horrified wail is still louder.

Fadl lowers his own wooden sabre, panting a little, wiping sweat from his brow. "What is it?"

Anwar is pale, clutching at his hand, looking as if he is about to faint any moment. "My thumb! My thumb!" he sobs through his overly rapid gasps of breath, his voice high from horror. "You broke it!"

"Let me have a look," Fadl says, slinging his shield over his bare back, tucking his sword underneath his arm.

"And look, my-my new t-tunic!" Anwar stammers, now absolutely hysterical; there is a long rip at its side. "Za-Zahra m-made it for me; she will--she will ne-never for-forgive me," he gulps in air, tears now running down his bloodless face.

"Hush," Fadl says, taking Anwar by the wrist. "Let's see," he says and feels for Anwar's now-twisted thumb with his fingers, pausing when Anwar cries out in pain. "It doesn't feel broken, only..."

"Only?" Anwar sobs, wiping his eyes with his good hand.

"Well, I've never seen this kind of thing before. It looks bent," Fadl mumbles, still feeling for the joint--it does look ugly, bent back far more than a human thumb should. "I've only ever seen this kind of sprain on a shoulder or an ankle."

"Will it stay like that?" Anwar cries, shrill, growing even paler. "Forever?!"

"Will you stop shrieking?" Fadl barks, uncomfortable with this level of emotion from a male, child or not. "A warrior should not be so effeminate."

"What does 'effeminate' mean?" Anwar asks, trying heroically to keep his voice steady, although he is still trembling like a leaf.

"It's a word that's only used by oafs, my child," a husky voice says from behind them, startling them both.

"Lady Zainab!" Anwar gasps.

"Indeed," she says and steps in between them. "Your uncle here thinks you're being like a girl, because he believes only girls are allowed to feel pain and weep." She takes Anwar's hand from Fadl's. "And like the fool he is, he believes that there's something bad about being a girl."

"But that's _silly!"_ Anwar pouts, now firmly ignoring Fadl, too, despite the indignant huff Fadl lets out behind them.

"It is," Zainab says, "particularly as women are able to take far more pain than men," she murmurs--and she, of all people, should know.

Deftly, she feels for Anwar's thumb joints; her plump, bejewelled little fingers glitter in the sunshine as she examines Anwar's hand with far more gentleness than Fadl had done. "It's not serious, my child; it's only slipped out of joint. I've seen this kind of thing before, on some of my dancing-girls," she says and looks into Anwar's eyes, smiling reassuringly. "It is, in fact, a sign that your body is extremely flexible. This is a very good quality for a dancer; this only happens to the very best. All we need to do is to just pull it back into place."

"Will it hurt?" Anwar asks. He is clearly trying to put on a brave face--yet now, it's not for Fadl's sake, but Zainab's.

"Yes, but it will hurt much more if we leave it like this," Zainab murmurs, now inspecting Anwar's tunic. "Oh, but this is only unravelled at the seam! The fabric is still fine. We'll fix that in no time."

"You're spoiling him!" Fadl rolls his eyes. "I was _supposed_ to teach the boy the art of _war,_ in case you hadn't noticed," he snarls. "To make a _man_ out of him, not some kind of..." he clenches his fist, _"milk-sop!"_

"Don't listen to him, Anwar. Sensitivity is a fine quality in a man, too; as is compassion. We need men like that, too; philosophers, poets, artists."

"But this is the _battlefield_ we're talking about!" Fadl moans, exasperated, waving his free arm. "He cannot start weeping _there_ if he gets a little scratch; tears are lethal during a fight! He needs to learn how to be _tough!"_ he cries, bouncing his hand off his bare chest for emphasis.

Finally, Zainab looks up at Fadl, stamping her little fists into her hips. "And when you, the bold warrior, are bathing in your own blood and writhing in agony, what exactly would you want a doctor to do, hmm? Would you have him spit in your eye and say 'Don't be such a girl?'" she measures him icily, shaking her head. "No... no, my proud stallion; you'd rather he patched up your wounds and gave you medicine for the pain, just like everyone else." She reaches out a hand to Anwar. "Come with me."

"What about me?!" Fadl sputters as Zainab starts walking towards the harem with Anwar.

Zainab glances at him over her shoulder. "You just sit there and think about what you've done."

Squeezing his hands into fists, snarling in rage, Fadl stands there and fumes. _Women!_ And pray, since when has _Zainab_ been the compassionate, maternal sort?! That Viking bitch is the most ruthless, mercenary woman he has ever known!

There's only one explanation for this, he thinks: just like with the 'headache' last night, she must be doing this, too, just to spite him.

Oh yes, to spite him; of that, he is certain.

The moment Zainab and Anwar disappear underneath the arches of the gallery surrounding the courtyard, Fadl pulls out his sword, lets out a roar of rage and stabs the nearest orange tree with all his might.

The hardwood practice sword, enforced as it is with inlays of steel and lead, sinks into the soft wood of the orange tree with ease. In fact, it slips deep into a natural crevice and stays there, now sticking out of the tree and waving as if a real sword would.

"I don't _believe_ it!"

Groaning, Fadl grabs the hilt, trying to yank out the sword; nevertheless, it stays firmly embedded in the wood. He braces a foot against the trunk, using his entire weight and muscular force to try and pull out the sword, yet it is to no avail.

"Son of a--"

"What's this?" An amused, female voice asks behind his back; light, young, musical.

Lina.

_Oh, **fuck.**_

Quickly, Fadl turns around, trying to hide the sword behind himself. "Nothing, nothing," he says, pretending he is leaning back casually against the tree, looking up at the branches with feigned interest. "Just... inspecting this one for frost damage."

Lina, however--always quick, always clever--glances around him with a grin, her bobbed hair swinging cheerfully as she tiptoes there. "I've never seen a tree being pruned in quite this way before, I have to say."

"Well," Fadl laughs nervously. Suddenly, he is all too aware not only of his awkward sword situation, but his shirtlessness, too; desperately, he tries not to squirm like a besotted youth. "I am quite new to this whole gardening business myself; I only developed an interest in these trees after moving here."

Lina nods knowingly. "I see. Well, it _is_ quite the orchard, your Thousand Suns."

"The oranges are quite delicious, too. I apologise for not being able to serve you fresh ones, however; they are out of season."

"That's all right," she smiles, and her smile, too, dazzles like a thousand suns. "But my lord, are you unwell?" she asks, glancing at his neck and his chest, her gaze lingering upon them just a little too long for propriety. "You are flushed all over. Have you got a fever? Is that why you are half-dressed?"

"I--I--"

It is then that a high-pitched scream pierces the air; presumably, Zainab has just pulled Anwar's thumb back into place.

"What _was_ that racket all about, just now?" Lina asks.

"The boy sprained his thumb, nothing more. Come." Fadl leaps off the tree, gesturing for Lina to walk with him to one of the platforms in the shade of the trees. "Here, the sun won't harm your complexion."

"Thank you," Lina says, looking around herself at the trees. "You know, before I saw your orchards, I thought the "thousand" was just poetic license."

"Oh, but the yield is nearly ten times that, would you believe?"

"Really?" She seems genuinely impressed.

"Why, yes," he says as he gestures for her to take a seat on the cushions and begins to pour them some refreshments. "One tree alone can yield three hundred oranges a season; as much as five hundred if cultivated with skill, I am told."

"And this," she nods at the bowlful of orange juice he now offers her, "is your own produce, I take it?"

"Naturally. It's quite fresh, too--as fresh as the day it was frozen, only thawed this morning. My brother built us a miniature yakhchal of sorts, you see: an ice-cabinet in which we can freeze a selected few delicacies for our guests."

"Our?" Lina smirks over her bowl, raising her eyebrow playfully. She knows full well that there is no lady in the house, as Fadl had left his concubines in Balkh, sent them all off with hefty pensions before retiring here--something Zainab must have boasted about on a frequent basis, to anybody who would listen.

"Figuratively speaking," Fadl mumbles, silently thanking God that there is a large, gray-and-purple shawl among the cushions, one he now hastily drapes about himself to feel less naked underneath Lina's twinkling gaze.

"You're still wearing your shield on your back," Lina nods.

"It's good practice," Fadl says defensively as he pours himself some orange juice, too, cursing that there's nothing stronger in the carafe. "I don't want to go out of shape, in case there's a war and I'll have to tramp around in full armour for days on end." He looks up at her more firmly, now. "Protecting your mistress and you."

"You _do_ love her," Lina says quietly, contemplatively, as if she had not fully realised the depth of his love for her before.

"I..." He laughs nervously. "I must admit I don't quite know how to respond to that, my lady."

Is he feeling insulted? Angry? Forlorn? Or all three? He truly does not know; if anything, he feels empty right now.

Lina laughs gently; at least there is no malice to her smile. "And I don't quite know how to respond to being called a lady."

It is, indeed, true that Lina exists in a somewhat ambiguous space, as far as her social status is concerned. For Fadl would never have struck up a private conversation like this with a free Muslim woman, were he not related to her by birth or by marriage: one only takes such liberties with women slaves, unbelievers or prostitutes.

And it strikes Fadl as strange that he does not, in fact, know where Lina stands--even in Zainab's most unorthodox household.

"I have been meaning to ask you about that. Forgive me for being insensitive, but..."

"I'm used to that from you," Lina grins and lies down on her side, leaning her head on her hand. "Ask anything you like."

Ignoring her barb, he but makes a little bow, smiling back at her. "It's only that your mistress has never told me whether you and her other women are, well, her possessions or not."

"Oh, she possesses me all right," Lina says, rocking her hips a little. " _With the cords of her tresses/hath she bound mine heart for ever,_ " she quotes a popular poem.

"You _do_ love her," Fadl murmurs with a wry little smile.

"I do indeed," she sighs. "Very much. But to answer your question, we are all freedwomen. It's what she does. She has spies in all the biggest harems, all the slave markets, who are to inform her immediately whenever a particular type of girl has been found: the sort who carries certain signs, often subtle, of Sapphic leanings. The mistress interviews the girl, and if she has a pleasant nature, or simply seems terribly unhappy, obviously abused by her masters, she buys her. We nurse her for as long as it takes for her to recover, at least somewhat--and many are such sorry creatures when they arrive that you would wish upon their ruiners eternal fire and brimstone," she says darkly. "After that, she is manumitted and is free to either stay or go as she pleases. Of course, most of us stay, because we are not fools. Some have left to find their families, only to find them dead, or worse: full of scorn for these women they now deem 'harlots,' them having lost their honour, even if they have had no choice in the matter. When that happens, the girls crawl back to us with fresh new wounds upon their souls, begging for us to take them back," she shrugs. "And we do. The mistress treats us well, feeds and clothes us like princesses; it is Paradise upon earth after what we have been through."

Fadl winces. "I am grateful."

"Grateful for what?"

"That you haven't yet ripped off my balls and eviscerated me. Despite what you've seen."

"Ha!" Lina laughs and empties her bowl. "I'll leave that to Zainab."

"Is that what she's trying to do?" he asks. Now, they are getting to the heart of the matter.

"What do you mean?"

He makes an all-encompassing gesture. "All of... this. You _know_ what I mean: that she came here, ostensibly to make love to me, but instead, she has done everything but. That 'headache' of hers last night. Flaunting you and the kind of love I cannot give her, being but a man; and now, coddling the boy... all of it just to spite me."

Lina stares at him, astonished; she seems genuinely surprised.

"Well?" Fadl asks, and he hates how reedy his voice becomes, now, betraying his agitation.

"Is... is that what you really think?" Lina asks slowly, cautiously.

"Think?! She has barely looked at me at all! What else could it be?"

"Forgive me for so slandering your sex, but is this how men really think? That we women are always playing games, even when we are not?" She shakes her head. "I knew jealousy was a terrible beast, but this is _madness,_ my lord! We arrived here but yesterday, and--"

"--And proceeded to make a fool out of me, in my own garden, and under my own roof!"

"You were busy with the boy!" Lina sputters. "We had no idea he was going to be here. And Zainab really _did_ have a headache. From that new diadem she wore for your sake; that set her back five hundred dirhams, you realise? I should know; I wrote down her commission to the silversmith myself! 'Silvern full-brow diadem,'" she recites, "'three inches high, laid in with sapphires, with a row of bells at the brow, with two rearing stallions meeting in the middle.' Those stallions were a reference to _you,_ and she was _so_ upset when you didn't even notice it. She'd spent so much time beautifying herself, stirring herself into an amorous mood, practically purring as she told us over and over how much she looked forward to her 'night ride' with her stallion. Yet all she got out of it was a headache! And when she has a headache, she asks for me to massage her scalp, which I did. And, well, one thing led to another, and I gather you heard the rest."

"So, she isn't... she isn't deliberately..."

"I'm afraid not. _Really,_ my lord. It is _I_ who should be jealous, considering."

He hates himself.

Oh, but he hates himself.

The idiot, the blind, stupid idiot he's been. The horses on that diadem; oh God, he remembers them, now--he--

"I..." he croaks.

"Yes?"

"I wish I were an orange."

Lina chokes on her juice. "What?!"

"I want to peel off my skin and be mashed into a pulp. That's what."

Lina lets out a howl and falls onto her cushions cackling, soon red in the face from laughter, her eyes wet from tears. "I'm--" she hiccoughs, gurgles, a drop of juice hanging off her nose, "I'm sure that--I--I'm sure Zainab can arrange that!"

"Yes, and then stuff _your_ little arse with the mash as a new sex game, you little minx!" he groans and starts slapping her on the back to help her breathe.

Lina but keeps on laughing, spasming upon the cushions from her cackles and her hiccups, unable to stop for a long while; it is only once she is completely exhausted that she stills, panting.

"Oh, God," she wheezes and wipes her eyes.

"What's this?" Zainab asks, again appearing as if out of thin air.

"Careful, orange man!" Lina shrieks, still breathless from laughter. "Don't give her ideas or she'll do it!"

"Do what?" Zainab frowns.

"The ma-mash-h--aahhaha!" Lina falls over again in a new fit of laughter, Fadl now laughing himself and slapping Lina on the back once more.

Zainab rolls her eyes and climbs onto the platform to join them. "Jests I can take, but spanking my mouse-mouse behind my back, Barmakid?" she asks, pretending great indignation; she gives Lina's buttocks a good thwack, enough to make Lina's eyes fly wide and to end her hiccups once and for all. "Better?"

"I suppose that's one way to do it," Fadl laughs as Zainab takes a seat between him and Lina, who now busies herself pouring them all more juice. "We were just talking about you, my love."

"Oh?" Zainab smiles, flattered as Fadl takes her hands in his.

"Can you ever forgive me?" Fadl asks, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

"For what? For being you? I have to do that every day, you realise. About thirty times at that."

"I am glad," Fadl laughs nervously. "How is your headache?"

"Gone with the diadem," she grins, glancing upwards at the familiar sapphire chain that usually adorns her forehead. "I'll stick to this one," she says, then looks curiously from him to Lina. "What _have_ you two been up to?"

"But discussing his delightful oranges, mistress," Lina says diplomatically and hands them fresh bowls of juice. "Like sunlight poured into a cup," she says and raises her own for a toast. "To Thousand Suns!"

"To Thousand Suns," Fadl toasts her back. "Tell me, how is my little nephew doing?"

"As you probably heard, I pulled his thumb back in and put some ice onto it. He'll be fine, as long as he musters the patience to keep his hand rested. Which means no swordfighting or horsemanship, I'm afraid," she says sternly. "You'll have to think of something else to keep his mind busy."

"Yes, I suppose we'll have to think of something;" Fadl grins and raises a suggestive eyebrow; "so we can be all alone. I have missed you--and not just in the bedchamber, you know," he hastens to add, clumsily, all his court manners and Barmakid eloquence swept away by the nervousness of the lover.

Zainab, mercifully, seems to understand; genuine tenderness warms the lake-blue of her eyes, immersing him, his sins washed away within their depths. She squeezes his hands, smiling. "I am glad."

But it is then that a loud rumble from Fadl's stomach interrupts their tender moment, most rudely; the girls both laugh and the tension dissipates.

"Even your stomach lacks tact," Lina teases, but without malice; the warmth in her eyes, too, astounds Fadl--a flirtation? Particularly the way she now twirls her hair?

"My belly may not be a gentleman, but nevertheless, he speaks the truth," Fadl says,  slapping his hands onto his thighs. "We all need to eat. I'll just go and wash, and over dinner, we can start this whole visit over. What do you say?"

Another gurgle bubbles up, but this time from Zainab's stomach: she looks down at herself in astonishment. "Goodness, dear belly! You needn't exaggerate. I think he understood we are in sympathy with him already."

"Yes, but look at how brightly he is beaming," Lina grins as she gets up and helps Zainab stand; "as bright as an orange," she says and winks at Fadl, biting her lip.

Fadl sighs heavenwards as he rearranges his shawl and they descend from the platform. "I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I?"

"Let us know when dinner is ready," Zainab says as they leave for the harem. "In the meantime, we'll think of ways to distract the boy so he won't bother us later," Zainab grins at Fadl in an unmistakably lascivious way.

Fadl's eyes fly wide. "Don't you dare lay a finger on him!"

"Not in that way, you fool!" Zainab shakes her head. "Thor knows I have enough trouble handling you," she says and pats Fadl on the groin. "Until tonight, my stallion."

As he walks to the baths, he wonders what exactly lies contained within that 'tonight.' Terrors? Raptures?

Knowing Zainab, knowing his own weaknesses and perversities, he braces himself for a little bit of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doodles for poor little Anwar injuring his hand [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/706461) and of Fadl getting his sword stuck in a tree [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/706472)
> 
> Anwar's injury was inspired by the little boy who dislocates his thumb during martial arts practice in [ this video](https://youtu.be/PunQu-bId1M) about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. He was so terrified and anguished and ashamed of his pain and tears that I had to write some hurt/comfort for it through Anwar! As the illness is something Connie might've had IRL--he was hypermobile and had the associated body type, plus the vascular, ocular, neurological and other issues, all pointing to either EDS or perhaps the closely related Marfan's--I thought I'd explore something similar in Jaffar's family.


	8. Chapter 8

"Do you desire him?" Zainab asks as she and Lina walk arm in arm down the corridor towards their quarters.

Lina sighs; it is obvious she had been expecting this question. "I don't know. But I do know it troubles you, mistress. Tell me," she asks, her eyes frank, bold. "What do _you_ think of all this?"

"Well, only a fool would look at the three of us and not notice there was... _something_ going on. Even the boy has noticed it, you know; this... tension. And therein lies the problem, Lina: the tension. That's what troubles me."

"Wait, little Anwar feels it, too? What did he say?"

Zainab laughs and tosses back her head, her earrings tinkling. "He said, with complete earnestness--you know what little adults they are--that we should all just marry and be done with it. Just like that! 'Both of you should just love Uncle Fadl as much as he loves you,' he said, with his little chin up, like that, determined as anything."

Lina laughs fondly. "I wish I had his faith. Or rather, that love truly _did_ solve everything."

"But is it really that, Lina? Love, I mean? You know old Eagle Beak has a... thing for Chinese girls."

 _And that's what worries you so; that he might consider you less attractive,_ Lina thinks, but does not say this out loud--Zainab is concerned enough about this already, without needing to have it rubbed in her face. Especially as Lina herself is in two minds about this attraction, too.

"That's exactly what troubles me, mistress. For it's not the sort of attention one is always pleased about, if it's... well, merely the colour of one's skin, one's build, one's accent that attracts a man. I've had enough of that for a lifetime," she says, shuddering a little. "You know what I mean. We are not his wives, his concubines, vying for his favour!"

Indeed, they are now free of rich men's harems, free of that hideous, terrible race to the top, free of that fight to the death with their little bodies as pawns. They no longer need to manipulate a man with their beauty, using their physical characteristics and their wiles as leverage to help them gain power and favours--or simply, more humane treatment: to have enough food to feed themselves and their babes, to be subjected to less back-breaking housework while the lesser concubines and their children starved, even as they broke their bodies fetching water and scrubbing floors.

"I know," Zainab says. "That's what I'm afraid of. That if you responded to his affections, he would just think of you as another 'golden pearl,' one on a long string of such pearls. Yet he has changed a lot over the years, I think. And he's never been quite his normal self around you, as you must've noticed. He's not as boastful, not as arrogant as he is with me and everybody else. With you, he is rather... awkward, more than anything else. Like he has something he wants to say to you, but dares not say it--and somehow, I don't think it's mere bashfulness, either. Can you ever imagine _him_ being love-shy about _anyone_?"

Lina laughs. "Not really."

"Exactly. It's as if some terrible secret stood in the way of his love, too. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do. Jaffar has done that exact same thing, too, I've noticed. It's like they fear me, almost; when I first met them, they both looked like they'd seen a ghost."

"Really?"

"Remember the first time we went to The Blue House, to talk about the dolls? As you and Yassamin spoke in the garden, I passed him by in the corridor, and he blanched, stopped and just stared at me, like so--it was like I'd frightened his soul out of his body! He apologised and said he'd mistaken me for someone else, then practically ran off. And when Fadl first visited us... he had that _exact_ same look on his face when he saw me. That was what made me take notice, particularly since you'd told me they were brothers. It's obvious I remind them of some particular woman they both used to know."

"That's curious; quite curious. Well," she says as they reach their bedchamber door, "we can only hope this double of yours was someone they liked!"

"Or more than that," Lina murmurs as she lifts aside the curtain and opens the door. "But that still doesn't explain why Fadl now acts the way he does; that queer mixture of besotted and fearful."

"Unless he thinks you're the reincarnation of a lost love!" Zainab says, her eyes glittering with excitement as she hops on the high bed, bouncing a little. "Besides, I thought you said your mother was a Buddhist. So she must've believed in reincarnation, am I right?"

"Yes," Lina laughs bitterly, "reincarnation as a _punishment,_ for a wicked life. And if you're _especially_ wicked, you're born a woman, or a slave, or _both,_ " she spits, not looking at Zainab as she flops on the bed beside her, covering her eyes with her arm. "Whoever thought _that_ one up forgot how marvellous such a fate is for turning one completely irreligious."

"My little cynic," Zainab says tenderly, lying down opposite Lina, kissing the hand that dangles over her temple. "And here I am, thanking Freyja on my knees every day for having brought me my Lina."

"And then you thank Allah for your stallion, I suppose," Lina says, smiling a little from underneath her arm, yelping as Zainab begins to tickle her all over with kisses.

"You still didn't answer my question, however," Zainab says pointedly. " _Do_ you desire him?"

"What would you do if I did? What would you do if I didn't?"

Zainab takes Lina's hand from her face and kisses its palm. "If you did not care for him, I suppose life would go on as usual. On the other hand, if you _did_ take a fancy to him... well..."

Finally, Lina opens her eyes and turns her face to Zainab. "Well?"

Zainab tries to shrug, but it ends in a wince. "I would like to go on loving you both. But if we made that love _simultaneous,_ as it were, all three of us together in the same bed... or, even if it were just the two of you, on your own..."

Lina nods. "You fear one of us, or both, would lose interest in you. Well, you know how I feel about men. I like them even less than you do, as lovers. His brother was what _you_ always call one of your 'exceptions'--I doubt I've ever had so much fun with a man--but that's because he's half female himself. Fadl doesn't have any of that femininity, any of that... sisterliness, that sort of likeness to yourself that you get with Jaffar. Do you know what I mean? Jaffar is the only man with whom I've felt that sort of shared understanding that you get when making love with another woman; that the two of you are somehow on the same level and know intuitively what works and what doesn't. I don't think Fadl has _anything_ of the sort, anything whatsoever that'd rival _you_ in my affections," Lina says and squeezes Zainab's hand, kissing it for reassurance.

Zainab sighs, lies back on the bed and stares at the brocaded canopies. "So, you _have_ thought about it."

"Of _course_ I have thought about it!" Lina cries and turns to lie on her side, facing Zainab. "You're the one who taught me how to enjoy orgies in the first place, remember?!"

"I know. It's not that I'm averse to the idea; you must understand," Zainab says, playing with the tassels of her vest. "I'm just worried about... well, anything and everything that could go wrong. I mean, what if he hurts you? With that horse-cock of his? What if he just thinks of you as an exotic little toy? What's the use of _us_ being liberal about love, enjoying the sight of our lovers with others, if he should bring into it his own jealousies, obsessions, anxieties? Lina, he is one of the most insecure men I've ever met! That's why he blusters so much; because he is so afraid and so vulnerable on the inside, so rarely able to just... relax and enjoy life. What monsters, ghosts lurking in his mind would we unleash if we shared him in our bed?"

"Well," Lina grins and raises her eyebrow, "your sleeping with his brother and his wife hasn't affected your friendship with any of them," she says and rocks her hips playfully. "Who knows, it might prove pleasurable for us, too."

"You _do_ want him. Oh, thunder and lightning! You _do_ want him!" Zainab sputters, and at each of her huffs, Lina but rocks her hips harder and bites her tongue, grinning. "You... you little imp! You're insatiable!"

"And that's why you love me!" Lina cries and clambers atop Zainab, pinning her to the bed by her wrists and planting a firm kiss on her mouth.

Zainab sighs, her soft body undulating underneath Lina. "I do, my love; I do." Melancholy, her eyes flicker as she regards Lina. "You know I could never deny you anything, mouse-mouse. And it's not like _I_ haven't thought of it too--with great pleasure, at that! So, if you want him, you shall have him. You know that all I care about is whether he'd hurt you-- _us_ \--in body or soul. For know that any disrespect, any dishonour paid towards you, my love--I, too, will feel it in my own body."

"Do you know, I think he knows that. He knows you'd rip his guts out if he harmed me in any way, even by accident."

"He says the same thing to me in bed, actually," Zainab smiles fondly. "That he loves me so much that if he hurt me, he'd hurt himself. I'm sure he's learned _that_ kind of nobility from Jaffar, but it seems genuine by now, thanks to his love having grown. And that's why I hope that he knows not to hurt you either."

Lina frowns in mock-thought. "He _does_ enjoy being whipped by you, however. What if he pinched me, just to get you to slap him?"

Zainab smacks her hands onto Lina's buttocks. "You perverse little minx!"

"Which is also why you love me," she nods and kisses Zainab again. "Come, mistress. We have to do _something,_ or else this tension itself will sprout thorns and cut all of us into slices!"

Zainab runs her hands up Lina's back to cup the back of her head. "I know," she murmurs. "If only love were less complicated," she sighs, playing with Lina's hair. "I suppose there's only one thing for it: that we confront him about it tonight and see what happens."

"Tonight?" Lina brightens, curling her toes and drumming her feet in delight.

"Yes," Zainab smiles, the joy and excitement in Lina's eyes making her heart ache. "Tonight," she murmurs and pulls Lina into a deep, tender kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A doodle of Lina and Zainab having some relationship negotiations [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/538782)


	9. Chapter 9

"And that's how you play with the King's Deck," Lina tells Anwar, fanning out the beautifully painted playing cards between her hands.

"Oh, but this is brilliant!" Anwar gushes, his eyes as wide as saucers as Lina hands the cards back to him.

For the past hour, she has been teaching him how to entertain himself with cards, how to play even the most complex games without a partner. Anwar has taken in the lessons quickly, almost alarmingly quickly, in fact; even inventing some card formations and sorting methods himself.

"Did your parents teach you that?" Lina asks, curious as Anwar lays down the cards into a crescent-shaped pattern, like a fortune-teller would.

"Father only ever uses them for divination," Anwar says. "He rarely plays games with them; if he wants to play something for fun, he plays chess. And Sonbol says that as gambling is forbidden by God, one should not learn how to play with cards in the first place, so as not to fall into temptation."

"Well, that's a little excessive, I think. There are many games you can play with cards without gambling having to enter into it."

"I told him it was silly, too. Besides, I don't even fall into temptation. All those things that are supposed to be temptations and sins are just..." he frowns. "Well, I don't see _why_ they're supposed to be so tempting in the first place. I think they're boring, or nasty, or just _stupid._ " He shrugs. "So, I'm never tempted."

Lina laughs at Anwar's matter-of-factness, but fondly, tenderly. "You're a good lad. I believe you."

Anwar looks up from his cards. He seems a little surprised, even, that Lina doesn't doubt him; he seems to have been expecting a different response. "Mother tells me that I'm proud when I say that, and that pride is a sin, too. But it's not pride! It's not that I'm boasting or anything. It's just how I feel, really," he says and rearranges the cards. "And being bored is nothing to be proud of."

"You're right; 'boredom is the enemy of happiness and can leave open the mind's gates for melancholy to enter.' That's why I brought the cards; so that you would not be bored, what with your hand."

Anwar looks up again. "Well, I know you and Lady Zainab want me out of the way, too. So you can be alone with Uncle Fadl."

"You're as clever as your father," Lina says a little nervously.

"I promise I won't feel bad about being left out, _if_ you are doing something to make Uncle feel better. Mother and Father have done that, too, sometimes. Sent us off to bed early because they've needed to heal Uncle in some way that only adults can understand."

"Well, it's absolutely not because we don't enjoy your company," Lina says. "I quite enjoy it myself," she smiles and ruffles Anwar's hair. "But it's true that yes, this is something... well, it's one of those somewhat _sinful_ things you'd find dreadfully boring, I think. So I thought the cards would be much less boring for you."

"Thank you," Anwar says, blushing a little, even. "That you thought of me, I mean. It's really nice of you."

"My pleasure."

"It's like what Father always says about hospitality. That we should always ask our friends and our guests what sorts of things they like, what kinds of things they are good at, and then entertain them with _those,_ instead of just forcing them to do what _we_ like to do."

"That's exactly how you should do it. You'll make a great host one day, doing your family name proud," she says warmly and springs to her feet, dusting off her breeches. "I hate to leave you, but I'm already late for dinner. I promise to play with you later, if you like?"

Anwar doesn't even look up from his cards, so absorbed is he in calculating their values under his breath, values numerical and numerological, mundane and occult. "Ten plus one... it's fine, madam. Eleven... one! That means good luck, and love," he says, smiling up at her over his shoulder. "That you will all be of the same mind."

"Excellent," Lina grins, slipping past the door curtain. "Until tomorrow. Good night!"

"Good night," Anwar mumbles, again focused on the cards.

 _The maturity of the boy! He's older than his uncle is, in many ways,_ Lina thinks as she goes to fetch Zainab from their room, her own stomach finally joining in with the others' grumblings as the scents from the kitchen awaken it into hunger. She can only hope Zainab won't take too long with her toilette this time, or she fears she'll faint from a lack of nourishment.

"There you are, mouse-mouse!" Zainab turns to greet her, now so thoroughly bedecked with jewellery that all her movements make her chime like a band of percussionists.

Gazing at Lina from head to toe, she takes in her outfit. It is still that of a youth, with its short cream-coloured breeches, red-heeled black shoes strapped over light brown leather stockings and a short-sleeved blue jacket over a long-sleeved pink tunic. Compared to Zainab's own silken blue gown, diaphanous blue shalwars and black velvet vest, all so thoroughly embroidered with silver and jewels that she sparkles all over, Lina looks more like a merchant's son than the chamberlainess of a rich woman's court.

But that's Lina all over, and that's why Zainab loves her. "Come here, my boy," she says and spreads her arms for Lina, who now kneels onto the same cushions Zainab has been sitting upon, their reflections multiplied in the triple mirror Zainab has used upon her dresser. "Let me embrace you for one last time, while you're still mine."

After a soft, gentle kiss, Lina pulls back, a little melancholy; Zainab has never spoken like this during those times they have played with others. "You will not lose me, mistress. Trust that I know my heart. And its keeper," she says and drops a kiss upon Zainab's heart, between her pillowlike breasts spilling out of her tightly-laced vest. "You needn't fear."

"I suppose so," Zainab sighs. "Oh, Hel," she groans and tosses back her head, waving her hand dramatically in a chime of silver. "It will only become more difficult if we tarry. Let's go."

"My thoughts exactly," Lina says, springing up and helping Zainab stand up; Zainab like a plump house-cat to Lina's sprightly gazelle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some doodles of Anwar playing matchmaker and Lina teaching Anwar how to play with cards [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/542254)


	10. Chapter 10

***

**Thousand Suns**

**After dinner**

***

"What if I don't want to talk about it?" Fadl says quietly, but unharshly; rather, he seems weighed down by his years, weary and tired. He sets down his wine bowl and leans back against the colourful tapestries, gazing in silence at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling.

Lina's gaze follows his. The frescoes--freshly restored under Fadl's ownership--depict the gardens of Paradise with its lush greenery, its fountains and its rivers; on the golden seats in the shade of the trees, beautiful houris and handsome pages attend to the believers, pouring them wine and draping them in golds and silks.

"What's gone is gone," Fadl murmurs. "I could've asked for them to paint those figures into the semblances of those I have lost, you know. But I didn't. Who knows, perhaps those are the faces of the former owners' loved ones? I do not know. But what I _do_ know is that there is no use in holding court with shadows, ghosts. My brother did that for years, and it nearly drove him mad; it was only Yassamin who could drag him out into the world of the living once again."

Zainab pushes the trays aside from between them, leans over and takes Fadl's hand. "We have heard enough," she says gently.

Indeed, what few words they have exchanged on the subject tonight have been enough: the women now know it was indeed a resemblance between Lina and Pari that had caused the brothers' unease. Through but a few, clipped sentences, they had learned that Fadl and Pari had parted in anger, and that it had been a monstrous, paranoid jealousy on Fadl's part--his having locked the women up in the royal harem--that'd finally made Harun's madness boil over; that Fadl still blames himself for the entire Barmakid massacre.

Zainab had immediately regretted asking him anything, now that he has divulged these details; thus, it would be cruel to further twist the knife in this, his greatest wound.

Fadl looks down, his eyes glistening with tears, but he is smiling nevertheless. "At least that's out of the way," he laughs, but there is no true malice to his laughter, either. He looks at Lina, sitting between himself and Zainab; she is quiet, thoughtful. "Perhaps I should gaze at you for longer," he says. "To chase away the shadows of the past with the light of the present."

Zainab takes Lina by the hand, too. "Had I known earlier, I would not have kept you two apart. That's _my_ jealousy standing in the way of happiness," she sighs.

"Well, I am flattered," Lina says, smiling widely; yet there is no maidenly flush to her cheeks, only an adult's confidence, only a relief at them having finally arrived at the truth.

"Do you know, there is a practice among some Sufis," Fadl says, now taking Lina's hand so that they form a circle. "Slightly dubious, if you ask me, but it involves all the mystics sitting around in a circle and gazing upon an exquisite young boy, contemplating the Beauty and Majesty of God's creation through his form."

"Definitely dubious!" Zainab rolls her eyes and laughs, helping herself to more wine--yet, she is careful to mix it with plenty of water, so as not to cloud her senses too much.

"Says the incarnation of Venus herself!" Fadl laughs and slaps her on the arse, adoring the play of light upon her glittering silks as her flesh jiggles within them. "Although I am not quite sure which heathen deity _you_ best represent," he says playfully at Lina.

"Oh, I only represent myself," Lina says, matter-of-factly, but not without humour.

"I would ask 'who is Lina, really?' and how she came to be, but as you have respected my wounds, it would be discourteous of me to start tearing open yours."

"Once you have heard one slave girl's story, you have heard them all," Lina tells him, sipping from the bowl Zainab now hands her. "The only difference is that _I_ am one of the lucky ones, despite not having any great graces or skills." She nods towards Zainab. "All of my luck is thanks to her."

Zainab protests at this, loudly. "Nonsense! You have so many graces and skills the others don't! A head for numbers, for bookkeeping, a vast knowledge that could encompass a library; truly, she is my grand vizier, and as such, just as great as you Barmakids." She nudges Lina with her elbow. "And just as lascivious besides!"

"Well, speaking of us," Fadl laughs and looks up at Lina from underneath his brows, "I did, in fact, worry whether you were some daughter of mine I did not know about. That also amounted to my nervousness, I have to admit."

"Fadl, you fuck your brother," the women groan in unison.

"...you told her about that, too?" Fadl looks from Lina to Zainab.

"I wasn't exactly surprised," Lina quips and sips from her bowl. "By now, I'd expect anything from a Barmakid," she grins, her eyes twinkling.

"Oh, come, this is all too heavy," Fadl groans with a wave of his hand, deciding that changing the subject would be the best course of action right now. "It is I who should be entertaining you. And not with mere sordid tales, only fit to be told by--"

"By gossiping old women at the bath-house?" Zainab grins. "I agree, however. We do need something to cheer our hearts, to lift our spirits a little. Have you still no minstrels, dancers, acrobats in your house?"

Fadl shakes his head. "I left all of them behind in Balkh. Besides, it would be an insult to you two to have entertainers in the house while you are here; your company is entertaining enough."

Lina lets out a dry, scoffing laugh. "The pressure lies upon us, does it? Whoever heard of guests entertaining their host?"

"Come, Lina. Perform one of your routines."

"You are _not_ serious."

"The shatir. Come."

"I haven't done him in years!"

"Shatir, as in a young rake, rogue, cad?" Fadl asks, making sure this is not some local term, but the one he is familiar with from his Baghdad days.

But as Lina gets to her feet, ruffles her hair into a tousled mess and assumes a cocky pose, he knows this to be the very thing, indeed--why, she is the very picture of the raucous young lads he used to himself carouse with at court; fashionable and completely without shame.

Lina winks and lifts her cup to her lips, her hand braced upon her hip; already, Fadl is grinning from ear to ear. "Please, _do_ continue."

"What do the fumes of wine and the wind have in common?" she asks, haughtily, with a grin.

"I do not know," Fadl says, leaning in, enjoying the game. "Pray, tell us."

"When they blow over a good man, they bring with themselves the fragrance of flowers, but when they blow over an idiot, they only bring with themselves the distinct stench of shit!"

Fadl bursts out into laughter, applauding with his hands and his feet. "Another!"

"Another!" Zainab echoes.

Lina undoes the laces of her drawers and pulls out the end of her sash through her fly, standing beside the wall so that her silhouette appears to be that of a man with a drooping, comically huge member. She sprinkles a few drops of her wine onto it, exclaiming in verse:

 _"Bad prick!_  
_I don't know what I should punish him with;_  
_Whenever he sees a beautiful face--"_  
\--and she flicks its end so it drips--  
_"He starts drooling!"_

Fadl covers his face with his hands, laughing and groaning at the same time. "Abu Nuwas."

"Correct," Lina grins and laces up her drawers, tucking her sash back in.

Thus, she entertains them with poems, quips, scenes, each lewder than the one that had preceded it: warmth glimmers in both pairs of blue eyes now measuring her over the rims of their wine-bowls, Lina's cunny swelling with her power, heavy with blood. Both Fadl and Zainab lie down on their sides, like celebrants at a Roman feast, sipping from their bowls; even though it's Lina they now imbibe, drinking her as they would their wine: to swirl into their limbs as relaxation, mirth and desire. Even if they must both have heard these quips a thousand times before, considering their vintage, Lina's clever play sharpens their twin desires into sun-rays, betwixt which Lina now basks a cat glad.

And like a cat, she now arches her back, offering her arse as she struts there in imitation of the boy-prostitutes; this makes Fadl purr audibly and brace himself up on both hands, eyeing her hungrily with eyes soft from heat.

Yet, as soon as he's let out that purr, he quiets; the only sounds in the room are his and Zainab's heavy breathing and the click of Lina's high, red boot-heels, click-click as she steps off the carpet onto the bare marble floor.

"Show us," Zainab says, huskily, shifting her thighs so as to better squeeze her cunny with them; "show us, my lad, how it looks like when you're taken in an alleyway by a man."

Lina laughs, her voice now deeper, so unlike her own as it bubbles from her throat; click-click, she sets her legs wide apart, bracing her hands up against the wall. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, following it with a sly glance at Fadl; yet immediately, affecting surprise, she slams her cheek and her chest against the wall so violently she must truly be hurting herself. Yet she does all of this in an alarmingly perfect imitation of being manhandled, panting and squirming against the wall in a mockery of a boy entrapped by a man desirous.

"But, my lord!" she cries.

Fadl's prick _leaps._

"Good boy," Zainab croons.

Lina pants against the wall, her profile facing that of a beautiful page of Paradise. Mirroring him in dark lock and lithe limb, in eyes as black stars, Lina spins on the tension by remaining silent, as if her customer were undoing his drawers behind her. She arches her back and lifts out her little arse, sways it to incite him; moans quietly, as if a female animal burning up from heat, from the desire to be covered, mated with. Again, she presses herself against the wall, taken by an invisible force, gasping; she undoes her breeches as if her customer were doing it, baring a boy's arse, seeking a boy's prick to stroke as he takes him. Her breeches are so tight, her stance so wide that this allows her to leave them rumpled up halfway down her hips, deliberately: only enough to reveal her buttocks but to hide her true sex underneath.

"Please, my lord," she makes her voice like a boy's, jerking up as if the customer were attempting to push in already; "please don't hurt me."

At that, Zainab _moans;_ Fadl, too, has reached full arousal, his prick chafing against the tightness of his trousers. He can smell Zainab's cunny, and perhaps that other scent is Lina's; it's hard for him to concentrate as he tries to see better, leaning forwards upon his cushions to get a glimpse of Lina's anus.

"But a moment, my young man," Zainab says; she takes her cushion, another, and drags them over to Lina, placing them on either side of her spread legs. "This performance of yours is worth a closer look," she grins as she beckons for Fadl to join her. "Come."

Fadl hisses as he gets up, not sure if he is allowed to take his prick out just yet; he knows that wherever this will lead, he will have to allow Zainab and Lina to set the rules of the game.

"May I?" he asks, taking his hand to his groin.

"You may," Lina says with a grin eager, breaking from her character.

"Whoever heard of a pleasure-boy commanding his customers?" Zainab says, mock-shocked, slapping Lina on the arse. She turns to Fadl again, snaps her fingers and extends her hand to him. "Come, your belt."

As this seems to be permission for him to both undo his belt and his drawers, Fadl does so; already he can guess what Zainab will be using the belt for.

Indeed, Zainab folds the slim, brown leather and gives Lina's buttocks a hearty smack with it. "That'll teach you!"

Yet, to Fadl's astonishment, Lina shivers in what looks like pleasure rather than pain; despite Zainab's blow having been hard, despite it having left a long red stripe upon her buttocks, Lina trembles all over and moans, her eyes closed in what seems like ecstasy.

"My apologies, my lord," Lina says, mock-meekly, yet biting her lip in that way she does whenever she is relishing something. "I shan't do it again, my lord."

Zainab, now having assumed the role of the customer, scoffs--it is clear the girls have played this game before. She exchanges glances with Fadl, with a long, lingering look at his aching prick; "Go on," she says, laughing a little. "Stroke yourself."

Fadl shakes his head. "I daren't, yet!"

"Did you hear that?" Zainab says, giving Lina another smack. "My friend means it's not his own fist he wants to come in," and she smacks Lina again, "but _this_ little arse right here!"

At that, Lina lifts onto her toes, letting out a squeak; her buttocks clench, and now, all can most definitely smell her cunny. Indeed, as she lowers herself onto her heels again, there is a wet patch upon the part of her breeches that now lies stretched tight over the little slit of her sex.

"I am very flattered, my lord," she says over her shoulder.

"Enough talk," Zainab says, accompanying her words with another smack. "This arse of yours looks all too pale, all covered in gooseflesh; are you cold? We can't offer him cold flesh, now can we?" she says and runs the folded belt across the cleft of Lina's buttocks, tugging her trousers a little further down; then, she surprises Lina with a hard smack right across her cunny. "Answer me!"

Lina sobs, genuinely struggling to stay in place: that stroke must have smarted, from the way she now grits her teeth. "No, my lord. We cannot."

"Well, then," Zainab says and taps her cunny with the belt from underneath. "We are just going to have to warm you up a little, aren't we?"

"Yes, my lord," Lina says, pushing her arse out further. "Whatever pleases you, my lord."

Zainab shakes her head, now running the belt up and down Lina's calves, her inner thighs, teasing her with long, soft strokes. "I do not speak merely of myself; I thought I made it positively clear that you would be serving both of us tonight, my boy." She hits Lina across both buttocks, harder this time. "Do you think you can take us?"

"Yes, my lord!" Lina gasps, now clawing at the wall with one hand, reaching into her drawers with the other. "May I touch myself, my lord?"

"Not yet," Zainab says, then looks at Fadl, smirking at how he is squirming, he also tense from having to refrain from touching himself; the torturer in her glows with pleasure from the sight of not one, but two people so bent to her desire. "I don't want you to come until I tell you to, do you understand? If you cheat, I will _not_ let you have him. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord," Lina says, biting her lip.

But Zainab sees this, too, and strikes Lina right across the cunny again. "I mean it, you little minx," she says, now more as herself to Lina than as customer to boy. "Six strokes for each buttock, I think. Ready?"

But she does not wait for an answer before she is already whipping Lina, brutally, without mercy, across both buttocks. Her cruelty astonishes Fadl, yet not nearly as much as the delight Lina derives from it: for now, Lina spasms, sobs, staggers against the wall, shivering in pleasure-pain; the scent of her cunny is now so strong it overpowers Zainab's own, even. The cream and gold paleness of her buttocks disappears completely underneath the redness, the welts Zainab now gifts unto her with a generous hand; this must be why they love each other so much, Fadl thinks, never having seen Zainab hit anyone this hard even during their wildest games. _Or is this because of what she'd said about women being able to take more pain than men?_ he wonders as Lina takes it all and loves it, glowing from it; her body heat, her boyish perfume now enwrapping Fadl, enveloping him in her delight.

Fadl marvels at her flushed buttocks, unable to keep from nuzzling Lina's hip; "Like red gold," he murmurs and looks up at her tenderly as she stands there, with her head hung between her arms and her hair a row of calligraphic swirls upon her cheeks.

Lina looks down at him, smiling a little, blowing hair from her face. "Thank you, my lord," she says, her voice rough from heat.

"Indeed, it is like red gold," Zainab says and runs her hand adoringly across Lina's buttocks, beckoning for Fadl to feel them, too. "And just like gold, she is made beautifuller still when heated and beaten, manipulated with a skilled hand."

"Spoken like a true connoisseur," Fadl says, and even as he lays his hand reverently upon Lina's arse, he shares a tender kiss with Zainab as he does so. "But I would see more. To continue this metaphor, perhaps we should burrow a little deeper to find even greater veins of gold?" he says and pulls a little on Lina's buttock, to better look at her anus.

"Absolutely," Zainab says. "Come, boy. Hold yourself open for us. My hands are getting tired."

Still staggering a little, Lina does as she is told; she tries to avoid lowering her drawers, but nevertheless, now the entirety of her cunny's slit is exposed, showing them just how much she is glistening, gleaming. And atop that slit, what beauty! A beauty Fadl has hitherto only seen from afar: Lina's well-loved arsehole, its rim swollen and raised like a flowerbud, a lighter pink and gold betwixt the flushes surrounding it. He has rarely seen anything like it on women; only upon Zainab herself and Yassamin.

He moans through his teeth, and cannot keep from taking his own prick in hand, now, squeezing it as hard as he can to stay it; he is sure he would unravel onto his trousers otherwise. His mouth waters; he wants to taste; his prick swells even further, yearning to push into that flesh, to take, take, take--

Zainab taps at his prick gently with the belt. "Soon," she says, softly. "We're almost done," and before she's even finished saying the words, she has smacked Lina between the buttocks, a hard, cruel stroke right onto her anus; Lina cannot even cry out from the pain, only shivering, shivering, her heels creaking upon the floor.

Tears glisten upon Lina's eyelashes, now; as Zainab strikes her again, almost drawing blood, her teeth chatter and she stammers, almost sobs. "Please, master. Mercy."

"There, there," Zainab says and strokes Lina's buttocks, kissing both of them tenderly. "We are done, now, my lad; you have been very brave."

"T-thank you, my lord," Lina whispers, with genuine difficulty, her voice wet from tears.

"I hurt you so, my sweet," Zainab murmurs and lays down the belt, stroking Lina's buttocks; "It's only fair that we should kiss it better, isn't it?" she asks and beckons to Fadl, gesturing towards Lina's anus. "Would you like to do the honours?" she asks, ignoring Lina's stiffening, her cunny visibly lifting, a sure sign of her clenching within.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," Fadl says tenderly, exchanging a fond glance with Lina. But he has to be certain, has to be sure; he has to ask, reaching out to brush hair from Lina's face, seeking her eyes with his. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes, please," Lina says, her eyes glimmering through their tears, she smiling so much it looks like she is about to burst with happiness.

"Let me see you do it, then, stallion mine," Zainab says eagerly; as she spreads the split crotch of her drawers to masturbate, she is so wet strings of her sap dangle from the silks, the lips of her mighty cunny as red and as swollen as Lina's arse. "Let me see you make my mouse-mouse come," she says with genuine tenderness, the words gravid with meaning: _thus, do I trust my beloved into your hands; treat her well._

Fadl is determined to prove himself worthy of the task; his pride, his reputation as a debauched Barmakid would not allow for him to fail at this.

"There we are," he says softly, gently; he moves to kneel behind Lina, having to lean down to nuzzle her arse, given how petite she is. Sweetly, reverently he caresses her slim, boyish buttocks, so tiny underneath his huge hands; his nostrils flutter as he spends a long while inhaling the fragrances of her spicy perfume, her sweet sap, the clean scent of her sweat. Above all, he thanks his arousal's cacophony for now being louder than the memories that this sight awakens within his mind: for it is true he has not had a tomboy since Pari.

But this is not Pari, not Pari, Pari she is not; this is a whole new human being, a whole new love, a whole new beginning.

He steals a lick at the end of Lina's cunny, surprising her with this so that she lifts onto her toes, squeaks; this, a promise of more thorough kisses to be delivered later. She is so delicious, so sweet that Fadl is already more drunk from this taste than he is from the wine; thirsty for more flavours, more drugs to swoon to, he slips his tongue to her arse. As he does so, Lina's squeak turns into a throaty cry, and he can feel her cunny clenching underneath his chin; his moustache and beard must be scratching her welts, he realises, but given who this is, he is sure the sting but fans the flames of Lina's desire.

She is so clean, so well-washed--well-rinsed, too, no doubt--that he can only taste sweat at first as he laps at the folds of her anus; determined, he hardens his tongue, probes deeper, and only once he's thrust it into her a third time does he taste that metallic salt-must he has been hunting for for his narcotic. He pushes his face into her harder, so hard that he walks Lina into the wall; just as rough as her pretend-customer, he now pins her against the frescoes and takes her, takes her with his face, his tongue's hardness, the full force and weight of his body behind his blows.

And just as he had hoped, Lina responds to this with delight; she claws at the wall, wailing, her arsehole clenching around his tongue; yet, its pushing him out only incites him into further conquest, her taste and her reactions his prize. His chin now trapped against her cunny by the waistband of her trousers, she clenches and clenches against him, soaking his beard in that way he so loves whenever he takes a woman with his mouth; he moans his thanks into her arse, vibrating his tongue, taking her with his voice, his hands clasping her hips to his face hard, hard.

"Please, please, please," Lina whimpers, pushing her arse back onto Fadl's face; she brings her hands to his head from behind, patting at his hair clumsily as she pleads for him. "Please let me come, oh, please; please touch me, please--"

But her voice breaks into another wail as Fadl yanks her trousers down to her thighs and slips his hand between her legs from behind, so as to cup her cunny. He shoots his hand far too high at first, having been so used to Zainab's plump and great mound; when he realises his fingertips are upon her lower belly, he pulls his hand back down, down, shocked at how tiny her cunny is, even if he had seen it before. So tiny he could fit two of these cunnies into his hand, easily; _my God!_ Yet, her clitoris is not difficult to find, swollen as it is; deftly, he traps it between two of his fingers and begins to rub, never ceasing in his taking of her arse with his tongue. Almost immediately, she begins to quake, her entire pelvis lifting, tensing, tossing, her cunny clenching so hard against his chin it feels as if she were kissing him with her sex--never has he known the like!--and she is undone onto his tongue, his hand. Remembering Zainab's lessons about the female orgasm lasting a long while, he but keeps on rubbing, keeps on taking her arse even if his tongue aches; only when she relaxes against the wall, panting, does he pull back for breath.

"How did I do?" he asks, licking her taste off his lips, rolling his stiffened jaw.

"Mmmhhh," Lina moans and falls back onto the cushions, burying her face in them.

"That is mouse-speak for 'excellent,' Zainab says, slapping Lina on the arse, she herself glowing with delight; she looks so relaxed that she must have come herself by now. "But he's only just started, my love!"

Lina's only response to that is to push her little bottom out. "Be my guest," she mumbles into the cushions, without lifting her face from them.

Laughing, Zainab moves to sit in front of her, pulling another large cushion underneath herself. "Go on, then," she tells Fadl while ruffling Lina's hair. "She likes this position best, too."

Happy to oblige, Fadl pulls off Lina's trousers, shoes and socks, arranging himself comfortably beside her. Still, he does not quite know what exactly he is allowed to do, lest the women rip his head off, and he looks from Lina to Zainab for guidance.

"Where should I..." he motions with his hand, the one that is not holding his prick. It is true he and Lina have played boy and sodomite until now, but he would lie if he said he hadn't dreamt of that little cunny, too.

"Lina?" Zainab tilts her head, lifting Lina's tousled head out of the cushion. "Do you want to use my womb-sealing spell?"

Finally, Lina turns more serious, glancing at Fadl over her shoulder, a little concerned as she measures his prick. "So, all the legends are true," she laughs a little nervously.

Fadl strokes the backs of her willowy thighs, dropping a soft kiss onto the small of her back. "I would not hurt you," he murmurs, "at least not in any way you found unpleasurable."

"I want it," Lina says, rather hastily, as if she were trying to convince herself, too. "All of it, everything," she says, now pressing her head into the cushions again, seemingly ashamed for her forwardness. Perhaps this is the only time they will get to do this; perhaps she will never again get the chance, she seems to be saying.

Zainab caresses Lina's hair. "I find it easier to take him in my cunny when I ride him," she says, "but then, having all of one's weight press one down onto that horse-prick... that can bruise my womb, too, even if the pleasure _is_ so great I will gladly bear the small discomfort."

But Lina seems to have decided: she pulls off her jacket and tunic, lying down on her side. "Like this," she smiles at Fadl encouragingly. "From behind."

"I shan't protest that!" Zainab says, immediately stripping herself and lying down in front of Lina, smiling and nuzzling her face.

"Neither shall I," Fadl says and strips himself down, too, arranging yet more large cushions around them so that they have a comfortable bed; they will be here for a while, he thinks.

"Close your eyes," Zainab says, reaching down to stroke Lina's cunny.

Softly, Zainab begins to whisper the womb-sealing spell as Fadl settles down behind Lina in a spooning position, rubbing a little oil onto his prick to ease the way. The scent of roses and saffron from the oil, the sweetness of the women's cunnies, the soft syllables of the spell unfold about him like a dream; undulating against Lina's back, Fadl sups kisses from her upturned mouth, then Zainab's as the latter seals the spell, he caressing them both as they lie there entwined.

He aches against Lina's back, the heat of the oil now making the blood packed into his prick feel acutely painful. He could take her right now, could just slip inside of her, drive himself inside of her and take his fill of her, but he doesn't, doesn't; he could never forgive himself were he to ruin tonight by being too rash, selfish, rushed. Already, there are enough things in his life he cannot ever forgive himself, the worst among them his treatment of Pari; therefore, he is determined to not get carried away by his passions this time, especially after having just related to the women how deadly his have been in the past.

Thus, he draws back hair from Lina's temple, his fingertips soft, feathers: "Come, my sweet," he whispers gently in her ear, beckons to her body with his caresses. "Come, turn around first. I would see your face."

And as Lina, after all this long play, turns around to finally face him, what he sees takes his breath away. She is glowing, radiant from desire, flushed all over, her high cheeks tight from her wide-as-can-be grin; her eyebrows are raised from excitement, her eyes sparkling black from her lust-dilated pupils, her eyelids narrowed from delight. A pagan idol, he thinks, like the lithe nymphs he has seen carved onto the heaven-bands of Nawbahar, greeting him at the temple's doors with their smiles; just as Zainab is to him a Venus, a Freyja, so is Lina as the sprites of the forests and the waters, dancing in the aether, inviting him to share in their joy: sweet Lina with her limbs lax from desire's nectar, her eyes long and languid from bliss.

Bold, Fadl lifts her chin and greets her with a kiss, a kiss tender and chaste; so careful is he with her that Lina laughs softly, now, throwing her arms around his neck.

"I am not made of sugar, you know," she grins and drops a kiss onto his nose.

"Lies!" "All lies!" Fadl and Zainab protest in unison and all burst into laughter, a tangle of caresses, warm skin and loosened hair.

Lina shakes her head. "You know what I mean. I won't break. Come--" she glances over her shoulder at Zainab, "am I allowed to call him 'my stallion?'"

Zainab tucks her chin over Lina's shoulder, caressing her arm. "You can call him anything you like, and do with him anything you like, mouse-mouse," she says, kissing Lina's cheek. "Order us, my sweet; tonight we are both your slaves."

"Well, then," Lina says, again turning to Fadl, dragging her foot up his leg. "I order you to take me," she says, pressing herself against Fadl, her nipples hard against his chest. "And, mistress..." she hesitates, a little worry colouring her voice. "Gemini."

"Understood, my dear," Zainab says, withdrawing. "That is our code-word for wanting to be left alone with our chosen partner for the time being," she explains to a bemused Fadl as she rearranges her cushions to make herself a seat at the foot of their makeshift bed. Even if he has experienced this kind of liberality with Jaffar and Yassamin, Fadl is still astonished at how well, how unjealously Zainab takes all this--until Zainab takes out the bag she'd brought with herself, that is, and from it, a beautifully crafted blue glass phallus. "I had been waiting for her to say that, actually, so I could sample _this_ fellow and watch you two," she grins and kisses its tip. "Please, do not mind me," she says and makes herself comfortable on her cushions, leaning back against the wall where she can see the lovers well, giving Fadl and Lina a delicious view of her own cunny as she spreads her legs and begins to play. "Be my guest," she smirks at Fadl, amidst soft, wet noises as she parts the lips of her sex, leans back and sets the tip of the dildo to the opening of her cunny. "Well?" she grins from ear to ear.

"Well, I--" Fadl starts, but Lina has already grabbed his cock; whatever he was about to say evaporates in the heat of her little hand, her little sex as she guides him to her entrance, just as Zainab now does with her toy. "Carefu--ah!"

But now, Lina lets go, clasps Fadl's arm with her sticky hand, closes her eyes and bites her lip; with a deep, steady inhalation of breath she forces herself to relax and begins to take Fadl's cock inside of herself. Her exhalation breaks into a keen, then a series of little, broken noises, a series of little puffs against his cheek; dizzied, Fadl can but hold her gently, himself but murmuring a quiet "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God" as Lina swallows him into her hot, soft and yet tautly-muscled cunny.

It cannot be easy for Lina to take him this way; Fadl had genuinely thought she would turn around again before trying to take him in. From between their tangled hair now forming a veil between their faces, he can see Lina is straining; unlike with the pleasure-pain she had derived from Zainab's whippings, she now seems to be in genuine discomfort. Yet he has learned enough about women to not interfere at a time like this: he daren't tell her to stop when she looks this determined, daren't think he knows her better than she knows herself; and it's not as if he wants her to stop. So, so wonderful does she feel around him, now, when her muscles alternately clutch and then relax, every clutch a caress making his prick pulse, his balls lift; yet already, even if she has only managed to take half of him inside of herself, he is nudging her womb.

"I'm sorry," Lina murmurs, grinding her forehead against his, angry at herself, it seems; "you're so damned enormous," she groans in both frustration and delight, all of her shivering around him, clutching and clutching him again, seemingly involuntarily.

He blows hair from between their faces, hugging her gently. "You're not the first woman to say that," he says, stroking her back. "Shall we try it from behind, like we meant to all along?"

"Yes, let's," Lina murmurs, laughing nervously. "I don't know how you feel, but I'm _aching_ ;" she mumbles as she turns around. "I feel as my cunny's going to burst if I don't get to come soon, like an overripe fruit!"

Fadl chuckles as he comes to embrace her from behind; "Incidentally, that's exactly how your orange-man feels," he declares as he manoeuvres himself into a spooning position behind her, nipping at her skin and tickling her all over until she shrieks. "About to burst soon unless he gets thoroughly, erm... pressed?"

Zainab groans in tandem with Lina, kicking at Fadl's foot with her toes. "That's _terrible._ Don't ever take up poetry."

"I'll show you poetr--y!" he moans as he slides inside of Lina, " _God, it's like a split apricot!_ " he hisses even as Lina giggles and cackles around him, now much more relaxed and yielding in this position.

"Oh, God," for now it is Lina's turn to moan, to clutch the cushions; "Keep doing that; just like tha--"

But now Fadl is clasping her mouth, bending her back like a bow as he truly begins to thrust; as he had guessed, Lina adores being clasped and held thus, allowing her to scream as loudly as she can into his palm, her body open, her cunny pulsing around his cock every time he drives himself in. Yet Fadl keeps his thrusts slow, slow and thorough; he makes sure to pause at the end of each thrust, just as Zainab has taught him to, to allow Lina's own cunny to ripple out its pleasure freely around his length. The moans she lets out between the thrusts, the way her entire body tenses and then relaxes with pleasure tell him immediately whenever he is doing it right; astonishingly responsive, her body's language is as easy to read for him as if they'd already been lovers for a long time. Underneath his free hand upon her belly, he can feel the echoes of his own thrusts in the wavelike flutter of her muscles, his own heart aching with joy at being so able to hold her very pleasure in his hand.

Keen on giving her that release she is after, Fadl focuses his entire being on the movement of his hips, on rolling them as much as he can in this position; he slides his hand down to her cunny to stroke her clitoris.

Yet, as soon he finds it, Lina squirms, huffs; she slips her own hand over Fadl's and presses it down, harder, more firmly. "More."

Already, she has started to turn around onto her belly; easily, smoothly Fadl follows her without ever slipping out of her, making even this shift of position into a slow undulation within her, a part of their play. He rearranges himself into position atop Lina, careful so as not to crush her--she is so tiny he can kiss the top of her head!--and all the while, he attempts to thrust very shallowly, as much as he is able to for his own ache to come.

But Lina is aching, too. She groans deeply into the cushions, clutches Fadl's hand, herself now moving back onto him, desperate; "Please, please, don't hold back," she moans from between her teeth, furiously grinding her cunny against their joined hands.

Fadl daren't ask if she is sure; he but removes his hand to let her stroke herself as she wishes, braces his hands upon the cushions and lays his entire weight upon her. "All right," he murmurs in her ear and begins to take her in his own rhythm, still with the shallow thrusts but now freer with the rest of his movements, simply because he cannot hold back any longer. Thus, he presses himself into the wonderful heat of her body, losing himself in the slide of skin upon skin, his sweat leaving wet marks on Lina's softly heaving back; he moans quietly into her hair as over and over, the squeeze of her sex sends shivers of pleasure from his prick to his scalp to his toes--higher--higher--

And it is then that Lina begins her release-moans, those syllable-litanies, those tones to bring herself over the edge; the song that had so torn at Fadl's heart when he'd heard it from afar. Again, the shock of its familiarity pierces him to the bone, but now, it's different, he no longer the Fadl of the distant past: for now, it is _Lina's_ body and not Pari's that so vibrates around him, enveloping him in the music of her pleasure; no longer is he but a passive observer but a participant, _he_ this song's percussionist with his thrusts. It is no longer Pari's song, but Lina's--no-- _Lina-Fadl's:_ hers, but now also _his._ An entire new melody, one they make _together,_ in this moment, free of the shadows of the past; her cries rising, trilling each time he fills her with his love, pouring into him her love in turn.

Just as the skilled singer modulates her voice, her mood, her delivery of the verses so that each performance is different, so does Fadl the fool now realise--in the concretestmost of terms--how every love, every act of love is truly different; thus, he joins Lina in keening out his pleasure, tumbling into her, flowing into her, his climax the crescendo to her melody. The melody of her voice, her muscles, her womb, her entire body trembling to the beat of her cries; so violently does she come, clutching around his prick, that it pulls up further pulses of sperm from his balls, his cock; on and on, he swirls into her as they mingle their ecstasies.

Faintly, from behind them, the cries of Zainab's own release bring their own sweet echo, response to their duet; patting at the cushions, at Lina's skin, Fadl finally gives in to lover's fatigue and collapses onto Lina, heavy from satiation. Languid, sweet, Lina clutches his hands with hers, brings them to her lips and then pillows her head upon them; equally languid, sweet does Fadl now nuzzle her cheek with grateful kisses, yelps as she playfully squeezes around his softening prick.

Lina lets out an exaggerated sigh and falls completely limp underneath him. "Wonnnnnderful," she mumbles, so relaxed she sounds half asleep.

Fadl lets out an equally theatrical sigh and flops upon her, ending his sigh with a sated moan. "I am glad."

"There," Zainab purrs happily, rewarding them with a peck on the cheek for each. "That wasn't so difficult, now was it?" she laughs and curls up behind Lina, hugging them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have [a doodle](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/fadllinalovemakingmeepage.jpg) of Fadl being very meepity when finally turning to face Lina so as to make love to her.


	11. Chapter 11

For a while, Fadl and the women lounge at ease and drink a little more wine, still diluted with plenty of water. It is warm enough for them all to rest upon the cushions naked, as natural as Adam and two Eves in Paradise--well, it certainly feels like Paradise to Fadl, to be so embraced and kissed and appreciatively fondled by two women at the same time.

"The question remains," he murmurs lazily as he transfers his kisses from Lina's mouth to Zainab's, "as to which one of you to fuck next," he snaps, deliberately vulgar, chuckling into Zainab's mouth.

"It's not even a question," Lina says and fondles Fadl's flanks from behind, nestled between the women as he is. "I have always wanted to see you two at it, I must admit. If only," she giggles and nips at Fadl's shoulder, teasing him by brushing her fingers either side of his freshly shaven pubis, "to see what exactly it is that makes her love you so."

Fadl sputters at that. "I thought I just gave you plenty of evidence!" His half-hard prick nudges Zainab's belly in protest.

But now it's Zainab's turn to chuckle. "You do not know my mouse-mouse as well as I do, my love. As far as she is concerned, this has been but foreplay; it is not a full night of lovemaking for her lest she be sodomised, with some perversions sprinkled in to season the meal."

"What, the whippings weren't enough, either?" Fadl says, now turning around to embrace Lina with intent, kissing her with a theatrical voracity and giving her buttocks a series of hearty smacks.

"I like to watch," she laughs between his devourings, giving his nose a kiss. "Mistress, did you bring my--"

"Your little friend is in the bag; help yourself," Zainab says and deftly, flips Fadl around once more, wrapping a possessive thigh around his hips. "Come here, my Heracles."

"Excellent," Lina says and leaps for the bag, lifting out a toy Fadl could swear he's seen before: a glass wand an inch wide and about four inches long in its shaft part, the shaft itself topped by three onion-shaped bulbs all the size of small eggs, stacked on top of one another.

"Should I be jealous?" Fadl grumbles.

Zainab looks down at him. "Not until you grow two pricks, so as to be able to take both of us at once. I see only one," she grins and nudges it with her hips. "But would rather feel it, my love."

"Wait for me!" Lina cries as she clambers back onto the cushions with the wand and the oil, now she taking her place at the foot of their bed, leaning back against the wall with her toy. She sits back in a curled-up position, lifting her hips up so much she is almost bent double; despite her seemingly cramped position, she spreads some of the oil onto her arse with ease and starts to press in with the topmost bulb of the wand. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"She's as bad as you are," Fadl says and turns to Zainab. "Way to put pressure on a man's nerves!"

"When _aren't_ you a bundle of nerves, my dallying stallion?" Zainab chuckles into his mouth with her soft Norse lilt, sinks her fingers into his hair and silences his protests with a deep, passionate kiss.

"She said you were both my slaves tonight," Lina says, attempting a purr, but she is short of breath already as she works to find the right angle from which to sodomise herself, the toy slipping from her anus from time to time. "Thus, if my slaves wouldn't mind," she grins, "I would like to see what the business with that legendary eagle-beak is all about. What is it, what trick that you perform with it that makes her love it so?"

Now, Fadl protests even more loudly, despite Zainab swallowing those protests with her mouth; the softness of her body and her kisses have already made him rock-hard once more, and they still want clitoris-sucking?! But he knows that if he wants to replace that wand in Lina's delicious little arse with his own prick at some point, he will have to work his way to it by adequately pleasuring them both.

"All right, then," he says, tearing himself free and tickling and slapping and pinching his way down Zainab's body; oh, but he has missed the jiggle of her flesh. "I'll show you!"

"That's my boy," Zainab purrs, letting go and leaning back.

"Just one more precaution," he says, deliberately not touching her as he kneels between her legs.

He closes his eyes and murmurs the potency-spell, drawing his fingers softly across his prick and his sack to protect them from fatiguing before he has satisfied both women--and himself. Lovemaking, for Fadl, is no longer the same without it; just as Jaffar had told him when he'd given him the spell, once a man has enjoyed several orgasms in one bout, as a woman does in the arms of a good lover, there is no going back to the old 'thump, thump, and slump.'

And now, he opens his eyes and feasts himself upon the vision spreading out before him: Zainab, his beloved Zainab warm with love, parting the fullness of her thighs for him eagerly, her heavy breasts lolling upon her chest, their ordinarily flattened nipples now lifting out with her arousal like two pink rosebuds. Her wide grin as she stretches there, basking in his gaze; the genuine love in her eyes, the ardent desire that now warms them; her eyes so dilated from heat that they are become as dark a blue as the sapphires glistening upon her brow. The rich fat of her thighs that ripples from his breath as he lies down between her legs, her belly quivering as he blows upon it for good measure--oh, but never will he cease to adore it all.

"I've missed you, my stallion," she says wistfully, stroking his hair tenderly.

"I have missed you, too, my queen," he says, dropping a kiss upon the fullness of her mound, reverent. _I could not bear to lose you,_ he thinks, and all of the tension, all of the anguish of the past few days now rises up within him, bursting out from the bottom of his stomach as a sigh that's more a sob; "I could not bear to lose you," he whispers, and in that moment, he does not care if Lina thinks him a fool for saying it. She wanted to witness them as they are, so he might as well not pretend. _Is honesty not the truest form of courage?_ he asks himself as he begins to kiss Zainab's cunny, a pagan come home to his altar.

"You haven't lost me," Zainab moans, her breath snapping with a hiss as Fadl sucks her clitoris into his mouth and presses down into her mound with his nose, presses onto the hidden root of that marvellous little organ, now so swollen and so hard he can feel its length extending into the plumpness of her mound.

So possessed by the desire and the anguish that now twist at his guts, Fadl doesn't _need_ to put on a show to prove his worth as lover: he only has to become all Lover, just like his teachers have always told him to be: to be fully present in the moment, to be the essence of whatever it is that he is doing. Thus, for this moment, he becomes Lover and Lover alone. With all of his hunger and his yearning does he now suck her, devour her into himself to fill that empty space that he has for his entire life struggled to fill; all of his heart and his soul does he now pour into his caresses, as if by kneading, pinching, massaging, lapping, rubbing, taking her body he could extract from her that elixir Love, the only thing that can truly sate his soul's hunger, its need.

And Zainab, blessed Zainab gives it to him, yields unto him gladly the haven of her body, her love's embrace: enwrapping him in the bed of her flesh, the veils of her caresses, she sates his longing again and again. She is so ready for him, so eager, so happy at being united with him that it intoxicates him, dizzying him; as he pours into her his caresses, she fulfills him in turn, sweet. Her sap flowing honeyed into his mouth, the heaviness of her hips as he closes his arms around them, her body responding to him so avidly, keen; all of this settles in his belly as a warm heaviness, anchoring him, filling that emptiness inside of him with the wonderful gravity of her love, filling him to the brim.

And Lina, from her vantage point--her senses now sharpened, concentrated by the overwhelming intensity only sodomy can bring--sees this all, feels this all with a clarity that leaves her stilling with awe. Just as the glass wand, by opening her body so unnaturally, by pressing on on her spinal nerves so powerfully, fixes her body's awareness onto its impalement, so does the passion of Fadl and Zainab fix her eyes and her heart onto the love-play now unfolding before her. She shivers at each wet sound as if it were her own cunny Fadl were sucking with his mouth, trembles as Zainab's body does; as Zainab twists and tenses in release, so does Lina's body snap with hers, the same ripples that now make Zainab's fat jiggle now dancing as little spasms upon Lina's taut, lithe frame.

She and Zainab have shared lovers before, but this is, to Lina, a sensation altogether new: to see Zainab not merely taken, fucked by another but to feel the presence of such true, deep, passionate love during the act, too. She has always enjoyed watching Zainab being pleasured by other girls, even if jealousy has at times stung her heart, tainting the otherwise exquisite pleasure of the voyeuse; yet now, how could she be jealous at this sight, when it is all so wondrous and finally, _shared with her?_

Yes, shared: she is basking in it fully, embraced by it, loved by both of them as they love each other, and at this she marvels, marvels. As Fadl mounts Zainab and begins to take her, his red prick sliding into her plush cunny with such strength, such familiarity, such ease, the gloriousness of the sight-- _all of this love is hers, too, now; hers_ \--makes Lina unravel upon her toy so fast it _hurts_. All of her worries are at an end, all her jealousies--she does not even know how or why she knows this, but she knows, _knows;_ she sobs on and on as her orgasm unravels through her on and on, the line of Fadl's prick and Zainab's cunny burning as an afterimage behind her eyelids.

Burning, burning; panting, hurting, Lina has to pull out the toy, now far too hard within her tender flesh, just as the sight before her is nigh unbearable, making her ache from both joy and from need. Zainab's mighty, deep, guttural moans ring through the room, echoing off the frescoed walls: so glorious the sound of her pleasure that it gilds the apples of Paradise, even the houris seeming to turn their faces towards her in awe.

And as light as a houri, Lina slips quietly closer to Fadl and Zainab, them so lost in their pleasure that they scarce notice her kneeling between their legs, their faces buried in each other's shoulders as they clutch each other in the throes of their mutual release. So close is Lina now that she can see Fadl's sack leaping, his balls lifting as he shoots himself inside of Zainab with a hoarse cry; so close that she can almost taste the trickles, spurts of Zainab's sap as Fadl's prick beats, presses them out of her cunny like so much juice from a ripe peach. Each time he pulls back, his prick is glistening, slick and sweet, honeyed from her; each time, Zainab groans and shudders all over in yet another convulsion. As he pauses for her pleasure, sweat trickles down the dip of his back between his buttocks, down to lick at the bud of his anus; as he plunges back in with force, the drops of both sap and sweat spray not only onto the cushions but onto Lina's delighted face.

Lina rubs her cunny, rides her hand, but she has to have more, more; so does she love that she decides the pleasure of mere watching is over. She wants to taste them, taste them both, to drink from that sweetness she has only tasted a few drops of until now; she wants to take their warmth, their heat, their slicknesses into her mouth, to feast upon that fruit, to devour.

And what better time to steal for herself a taste than now, when Fadl collapses onto Zainab, ecstatic in his happiness, them both glowing with love? She moves in--

Yet it is then that Fadl rolls onto his side, pulling Zainab to himself so that they now lie face to face, and Lina hasn't the heart to interrupt this moment; for Fadl does not say anything, only adores Zainab's face, looking so young and so tender it breaks Lina's heart. He closes his eyes and kisses Zainab softly, Zainab gathering him to her breast, rocking her as a mother would her child; for that moment, Lina's urge to pounce them is also strangely soothed, for she feels as if she were held by Zainab then, too, just as Fadl is, so that she can even feel Zainab's heartbeats against her cheek. Is this due to the magic of their love-spells, she wonders? Or is she imagining it, merely drunk from the opium of love, delirious?

But now, Fadl chuckles, creaking open one eye, its kohl-smeared blue twinkling mischievously over Zainab's shoulder. "Come here, little one," he says, his voice's usual hardness, sarcasm, snarl now gone; even his speech is that of a youth.

Lina hesitates--she, the little would-be thief, hesitates!--but as Zainab's tinkling laughter beckons to her, too, and Zainab makes room between herself and Fadl, Lina cannot resist.

Thus, she slips in between the warmth, the heat, the sweat-and-sap stickiness of their bodies, and sighs in defeat.

"Did we ruin your plans of burglary, mouse-mouse?" Zainab chuckles and kisses Lina's nose as Fadl presses against Lina's back.

"We can pretend we didn't notice," Fadl says, still playful, closing his eyes and offering Lina his genitals. "There. Help yourself to the, erm, fruit-basket."

Lina huffs and rolls her eyes. "It's not the same, now."

"She always has to steal," Zainab whispers loudly over Lina's shoulder. "It is such an obsession for her by now, I worry she cannot have satisfaction without."

"How about now?" Fadl says, crossing his wrists behind his back. "You can see I am _perfectly_ helpless," he says, wide-eyed and utterly ridiculous as he rocks his hips, his still perfectly-hard prick in offering.

"Oh, you two!" Lina moans and slaps Zainab's breasts with a groan, turning around to face Fadl and his unbearable grin. "Have a care, my lord, or I _will_ take advantage of you indeed."

"Then, why don't you?" Zainab purrs over her shoulder, immediately aroused by the idea. "You wanted to see what he was like as a lover, so it is only fair that you should experience just how _delicious_ he is when bent to a woman's will."

The way Fadl freezes at those words is, in fact, so hilarious that the devil in Lina truly awakens once more, a little hot tongue of wickedness flicking at her cunny. The wider Lina feels her own grin spreading, the more Fadl's eyes widen in apprehension, worry; yet, tellingly, he never takes his hands from behind his back, and his prick never grows any softer.

On the contrary, rather, it seems to be nodding its assent.

Zainab reaches past Lina to poke at Fadl's prick. "See?" she chuckles and gives Lina's shoulder a kiss.

"I see, and I like what I see, mistress," Lina grins, making her voice honeyed, warm, caressing Fadl with it, marvelling as he stirs in anticipation. "Mistress, may I have the toy-bag?"

"You _are_ thinking what I am thinking, mouse-mouse?"

"Mmm-hmm," Lina licks her lips, gesturing to Fadl. "Come, _slave,_ get up! Get up onto your knees. And keep your hands behind your back."

And oh, but the way Fadl grins as he does just that! "To hear is to obey, mistress Lina," he purrs as he straightens himself out, his eyes flashing with excitement, dark and hot.

Truly, he is in the mood for proving himself tonight, falling into his role naturally; boldly, he displays his body, in all its tall and sinewed strength, perfectly aware of how well-preserved he is for a man his age. He is not ashamed of his numerous battle-scars, rather proud; his pride swelling further as he basks underneath the women's gazes.

And now that they have all come at least twice, none of them are in a hurry; as Zainab investigates the contents of their treasure-bag, Lina takes this opportunity to appreciate Fadl's body fully. So far, she has only _felt_ it rather than truly looked at it in its natural state of nudity; even then, she had mostly felt it from behind, not from the front.

The clink of glass and metal toys accompanying Lina's examinations, she goes over each part of Fadl's body with the curious pleasure of the explorer, the geographer, the naturalist: she clasps a long, lean muscle here, caresses a long, lean tendon there; adores the tremors, the twitches of sinew and nerve that follow her touch as she traces the ladders of his ribs with her fingertips. Leaning closer, she examines each one of his scars, measuring them with her lips; she kisses them with a genuine tenderness, a prayer of thanksgiving to whatever deity had helped him survive each wound. Thus she, the godless one, finds herself worshipping him in the natural, heathen manner so often brought on by the drunkenness of love: as if this sanctification of the beloved's body were the first act of some ancient fertility ritual whose formula were still, after centuries, singing in one's blood.

As her lips press against Fadl's sternum, drinking his heartbeat in silence, a soft cry blossoms in Fadl's chest, so soft it never breaks out from his throat; quickly, whether from shame or unreadiness, his voice furls its petals down over his heart once more.

Lina means to look up, to ask why--

But it is then that Zainab's hand caresses her head, handing to her a silk cord and two lead weights the size of eggs. "Here you are."

When Lina looks back at Fadl, his face is calm once more, his eyelids heavy, hooded, secretive. She observes him, this imposing yet inwardly so insecure a man towering over her; he is a full foot and three inches taller than her, yet now, as they kneel there opposite each other, she feels herself somehow stronger than he.

Both of them remain silent as Zainab secures Fadl's wrists behind his back with Lina's belt.

"There," Zainab says and shuffles back on her knees. "Shall I show you how?"

"I think I shall explore this myself, if you don't mind," Lina says, still looking at Fadl. "For I am curious."

"Be my guest," Zainab says and sits cross-legged beside them.

Lina lifts out the instruments of torture trusted into her keeping: she has not done anything like this with a man in a long time. "I would not hurt you too much to deprive you of pleasure," she says softly, but firmly. "You must tell me when it feels right, and be brave enough to tell me when it becomes too much."

"As you wish, my lady," Fadl says, a little smile now tugging at the corners of his mouth, a little twinkle of marvel, even admiration, in his eyes.

Smiling back at him at that "my lady," Lina proceeds to tie the silk cord around the root of Fadl's prick and his sack, looping the cord three times around his genitals before tying it into a bow beneath them, making sure that his skin is stretched smoothly and comfortably within its confinement. Looking into his eyes, she lifts out the first leaden weight, unclasping the little ring atop it; at the click, Fadl _judders,_ a drop of sap beading at the tip of his prick.

As impressed as she is at the fact that he can still drip after having already come twice--that potency spell truly is something!--Lina nevertheless remains calm as she hooks the weight into one of the loops of the bow she'd made, and lowers it down gently, leaving it hanging there.

At that, Fadl hisses, sways, sways as the weight does between his legs; he squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth and steadies himself, trying to get the weight to still so as not to give himself too much pain.

Lina clasps the weight, making sure to only stop it from swaying, but without taking any of its weight off Fadl's genitals. "Is that enough, or do you want more?"

Fadl draws in a deep breath, his entire skin now covered in goosebumps, his nipples hard and dark. With a shudder, he opens his eyes, still speaking from between clenched teeth. "Whatever gives you most pleasure, my lady."

" _Good boy,_ " Zainab croons in delight, and Fadl _beams._

"A good boy indeed," Lina laughs warmly, rewarding Fadl with a kiss upon his chest, mercifully not forcing him to lean down to kiss her, frozen with pain as he is. And oh, the smile glowing upon his face as he looks down at her, as she slips the second weight into the bow--even as he shivers, even as he sways again, he never takes his eyes off Lina's this time, his breath sharp and hot upon her skin.

"Good boy," Lina repeats, giving his balls, his cock a series of feather-soft caresses, caresses so sweet and so painful in his tortured state that tears spring into his eyes. "Good boy, good boy, good boy," she murmurs and drops another kiss upon his heart.

But now, she must take a few steps back to admire her handiwork, her creation, this new Fadl she has never seen before but has heard so many legends of. So this, _this_ is that tortured, beautiful, adoring Fadl Zainab had so often boasted to her of, the man so glorious, heroic, noble even as he submits to his lady love? She adores him, this Fadl that now looks at her with his body held proudly upright, his every muscle taut with strength, his eyes softened, his hard shell broken by pleasure-pain. His heavily kohled eyes a deep blue, feverish with desire, his bold nose and the bearded tip of his chin held up with an inborn nobility; his black and silver hair falling in rich waves around his long, lean face, clinging to his beautifully muscled neck and swirling onto his lean, yet broad shoulders. His sinewed, lithe torso with its every muscle clearly outlined, drawn sharply by a life spent on the battlefield; sloping down to narrow, lean hips and leaner thighs, between them his prick more Priapic than ever in its confinement.

Thus, it is both Fadl the warrior and Fadl the lover who is now kneeling before her at the same time, his heart bare and shining with love for her, he ready to offer service at her feet, just as he would to his Zainab; a love and a trust freely shared, so much of his nervousness and insecurity lashed out of him by the pain, its heat.

"You look wonderful," Lina tells him, warm, kissing his belly.

Again, she feels herself some priestess of old, from having all of this trusted into her hands; just as Fadl has sought to prove himself to them, so shall she now prove to him herself: that she is worthy of his trust.

As if in a dream, languid, sweet, she lies down before him upon the cushions, spreading herself out for him to see; she begins to caress her breasts, her cunny, bringing out the glass wand once more and teasing with it her arse. _All of this awaits you,_ she tells him with her body, promising, yet still withholding; thus, for a long while she pleasures him with anticipation, with wet and sweet cunny, with swift and lissome limbs, with peaking breasts and dilating arse, opening herself for him wide, wide.

"Mistress," Lina says huskily. "I would you warmed him for me. Prepared him for me."

With a quiet smile, Zainab knows exactly what to do; and oh, but the look in Fadl's eyes, the way his prick leaps, slaps sticky against his belly as Zainab picks up the oil and kneels behind him! Zainab, of course, lets him wait before she even touches him; there is but the sound of the bottle being uncorked, the slick-slick-slick of her oiling her fingers.

And yet, Fadl never takes his eyes off Lina, facing her boldly; yet, despite his pride, he nevertheless looks like a man condemned. _To death from pleasure, perhaps?_ Lina chuckles to herself, both fascinated and amused; her clitoris swells underneath her rubbing hand as she watches him, her cunny and her arse clenching as she watches him so coiled, so tense.

Yet at the same time, her heart aches for him, melts for him; she would he, too, melted a little.

"You are beautiful," Lina murmurs quietly, hoping Fadl can hear her, not only with his ears but his heart.

"It's what I always tell him," Zainab says wistfully, now finally taking her oiled hand to Fadl's arse.

He stiffens even further, his eyelashes fluttering to his cheeks, his muscles so tense and his veins now so prominent Lina half fears he will have a heart attack. The weights between his legs sway, sway and he lets out a hopeless, hoarse, hollow sob that is terrible to hear; his eyes snap open once more, his mouth hanging open and he stares at Lina, unseeing. For he is looking inwards, with that deep, feverish introversion only great pain can bring; yet he still seems to be fighting his condition somehow, as if his life depended upon some private code of honour that he mustn't break.

"Hush," Zainab murmurs, kissing his arm, stroking his neck, cupping her hand over his chest as she works her fingers in and out of his arse, the oil trickling down between his thighs. On and on she whispers, murmurs to him words of tenderness and of adoration, pouring her love into his pain-trance as water and honey are poured into wine to dissolve its bitterness. "Look at how much she loves you, how she adores you. How we both do, my love, my love," she kisses onto his skin, kneads into his arse, caresses onto his heart. "So beautiful, so beautiful; our beloved, our champion... my love, my love, my love."

And as Fadl lets out another cry, a long spurt of sap pouring from his prick, dangling down and then entangling itself with the swaying weights, Lina's own body finally yields, too: the glass toy slips inside of her arse and she spasms from its shock, a trickle of sap bursting from her cunny as if to mirror Fadl's. She lets out a low howl of her own, clutching the toy, pressing it hard inside of herself to fight the muscles that would otherwise eject it; her arm trembles, her shoulders ache, her cunny pulses and pulses with heat.

The air sweetened from their honey, thickened by Zainab's husky murmurings, spiced by Fadl's pain they remain, each wishing to spin this moment on, on; Fadl heavy and hard, Lina soft and light and sweet, Zainab's caresses slow and warm.

Lina, however, is losing the struggle to hold back, a flood of fire shooting from her hips through her belly through her chest; sodomy always undoes her so quickly, in such a lightning-flash, that she almost lets it. But not now, not yet, not yet; swiftly, she yanks out the toy, takes her hand off her cunny, throws back her head and wails, loud. She lies there upon the cushions with her legs spread, the velvet stained, knowing exactly how open she is, how Fadl must see not only the pulse of her cunny's opening but also the gape this toy always gives to her arse; she can feel his eyes upon her, gazing inside of her, into the hollows of her flesh with a deep hunger, greed. She clutches at the cushions, forcing her breathing to remain quiet so that she can better hear Fadl's noises, his chain of broken _ah_ s so clearly those of an impending release--

But then, there is a slick noise, a smack and a howl as Zainab tugs out her fingers and gives Fadl's prick a hard slap. Lina only sees the result of this slap, its noise pulling her head up from the cushions: Fadl hunched over from his pain, the weights swaying violently, their movement snapping the sap-strings stretched between them and the tip of his prick. Those strings now whip around his cock, glistening as Zainab's fingers do when she brings them up to his face, merciless, smearing his face with her greasy hand; with her other hand, she holds his head down so that he may lap at her palm, sob into it his agony.

"Please," Fadl moans as Zainab lets him breathe again, flushed with despair, his hair falling onto his face in strands.

But Lina is there already, standing up so that she may cup his head, tender, cup his head and kiss him deep. She and Zainab both soothe him with their hands, caressing his back and his flanks as if calming down a panicking horse; kissing and kissing his body all over.

"Soon," Lina promises, knowing they cannot keep him like this for long without damaging his genitals; already his cock is a dark purple, so swollen they must soon allow him relief. "Only a little while, now. You've done so well, so well," she whispers onto his lips, her heart light as she sees the gladness in his eyes as she withdraws. "But a moment. Mistress, help me."

Languid, yet swift, Lina arranges herself onto all fours before and against Fadl's body, her face down and her arse in the air; Zainab helps her find just the right position and angle, balancing Lina with cushions so that her face and arms rest upon them comfortably while her cunny and her arse press against Fadl's prick. As the touch of Lina's cunny sends the weights swinging again, the women ignore Fadl's shivering, his little noises of pain mixed with awe; only when those sobs quiet down into utter hopelessness does Lina glance at him over her shoulder, still the coquette.

"Close enough?" Lina quips, shamelessly rutting her cunny against Fadl's shaft.

"You--" Fadl spits from between his teeth, "you little--!"

Zainab chuckles. "I think that's our answer." Merciless herself, she leans down to lap at the wet stripe Lina's cunny has left upon Fadl's prick, finishing with a suck at his glans.

"I cannot--" Fadl hacks out, "I--please--!"

But it is then that Zainab guides Fadl's cock inside of Lina's cunny, surprising them both; yet Lina is so wet that he slides in easily, with a long howl, juddering so violently that Zainab has to hold him so that he will not fall over. Clutching his bound hands, Zainab stills him as Lina begins to take him, Lina moaning herself as she feels just how full he is, just how hard he is, how swollen. She grinds back onto him, holds still and God, God, he _leaps_ inside of her, all of him shuddering as her cunny squeezes around his prick, its wonderful length and width.

"God, you are so hot--so hot," Lina groans into her arm, taking one hand to her clitoris and rubbing it hard, wildly. "Mistress, take the weights off him--please, have mercy on him--and me--"

"Not until he's in your arse, mouse-mouse," Zainab says, slapping Lina on the rump.

"Then, do it!" Lina cries, pulling off Fadl's cock and looking over her shoulder.

Fadl himself is again silent from pain, his eyes in such a haze it's as if he is dreaming as Zainab takes off the weights and undoes the ropes from around his genitals, soothing them with soft caresses, kisses and tender whispers. "Good boy, good boy, good boy," she murmurs, feeding him with rich kisses from her lips, stroking oil onto his prick, hugging him as they kneel there. "And now, for your reward."

"And mine," Lina says, now fingering her arse with one hand, smiling to Fadl in encouragement.

"Do you need help with that, mouse-mouse?" Zainab asks mock-innocently.

And before Lina can answer, Zainab has knelt beside her, stroking Lina's arse with oiled hands, spreading the oil all over her buttocks, making her glisten and gleam. She pushes two fingers into Lina's arse, one from either side; no matter how many times she has done this before, Lina is never quite used to the amazing strength with which she does it, to just how easily Zainab can open her, far beyond what her own hands or toys ever can. Lina cries out into the cushions, her cunny clenching and clenching, again painting Fadl's cock, his freed balls; now, Fadl begins to rut against her cunny with force, his cock slipping with the oil, he swearing as Zainab drops a kiss upon its tip.

"Do you want me to beg?" Fadl groans, hunching over Lina, now.

"I--I think--you're pleading quite--quite beautifully already," Lina stutters, she now the one speaking through clenched teeth as Zainab digs her fingers in deeper, tugging her open with force. Lina knows exactly how she must look like, now; she can feel Zainab's breath, her spit inside of her arse which means she must be gaping, and going by the noise Fadl now makes, he must be seeing right inside of her, yet still not allowed in.

But Lina is hopeless now, desperate herself; this torture must end. "Come, let him, let him."

And there, there: the amazing, wondrous heat and weight of a real cock inside of her arse. What stuns her is its _softness_ in comparison to all the hard toys she has been taken with for so long; no, this is real flesh that has natural give, yet underneath it the hardness of real muscle, now driving inside of her. The push seems endless, the stretch so amazing that now Lina stills entirely, her skin breaking out in cold sweat; she shivers, even her hand falling from her clitoris as she struggles for balance.

For all of her is now held up solely by Fadl's cock, Fadl's cock, Fadl's cock; this length of flesh alone holding her upright, sliding up against her spine, setting all of its nerves alight. She is cold, then hot, then cold again, in such a nervous shock from the penetration, its intensity that she feels half slain, gutted, gored by this invasion, yet at the same time swimming in ecstasy. An ecstasy so unlike ordinary penetration, an ecstasy she has been devoted to for years, yet she has never had a man this huge, this enormous so impaling her. She is frozen, frozen--feverish--frozen--

And then, a tender, moustachioed kiss upon her back. A soft flutter of big, warm hands upon her flanks--Zainab must have freed them--and a tenderness so careful it is heartbreaking; a voice husky, raw from anguish whispering in her ear. "Am I hurting you?"

That he should ask this, after all their tortures! All Lina can do is laugh, laugh with the delirium of the intoxicated, even through her chattering teeth. She pats at Fadl's hands, pushes back onto him. "As I said, your prick, it's--it's living up to the legends!" she laugh-gasps into the cushions, forcing herself to try and turn her head enough to smile back at him. "Please, move a little more. Go on."

Fadl gives her a soft, gentle kiss, his face and his chest entirely flushed, now. "I shall," he promises, bracing his hands upon her buttocks. "Touch yourself, my love."

But Lina is already doing so. Taking a deep breath, she leans back into the careful, steady, rocking rut Fadl now begins with his hips, forcing herself to expand, expand for pleasure. She rubs herself vigorously, the red pleasure-waves from the front of her cunny finally meeting the lightning-bolts of white heat Fadl strikes from her guts with his every stroke; both crash against each other within her hips, engulfing her entire body, bursting from her lungs as howls. He rolls his hips and she rolls hers back onto his, both of them now rushing into a sweet ride, ride, ride; already she can feel herself ejaculating against his sack as it slaps against her swollen cunny, spraying her fluids all over their thighs.

Zainab's moans join theirs, the sound of her rubbing her equally slick cunny a counterpoint to the slap-slap-slap of Fadl and Lina's sexes; the rhythm of Fadl's cries is broken by a cry much louder, that of surprise, from which Lina knows Zainab to have taken her other hand to Fadl's arse once more.

"Let me taste it," Zainab hisses, her chin pressed against Lina's buttock; now it is she guiding the rhythm of Fadl's thrusts with her fingers in his arse. "God, you are _so_ deep inside of her--I've dreamt of this--of tasting you together, please--"

Oh, but Lina has to see this. Even if she is upon the brink of orgasm, she yanks herself off Fadl, cruel; she almost sprains her neck turning to look over her shoulder but oh, it's worth it. Lina's wail is the loudest as Zainab guides Fadl's glistening cock into her mouth, Lina's foam curling about her lips as she swallows him avidly, hungrily; Zainab's juddering, spasming and howling can only mean she is coming onto her hand, from the sheer ecstasy of tasting her two loves at once. A sight both tender and lewd, so full of love even in its perversity--but Lina is so feverish, now, so close that she has to have him back, needs him to complete the circle of pleasure by finally allowing them both the release they are desperate for.

"Please!" she cries, her hand flying on her cunny so hard it's burning, her arse gaping, spasming shut and open again in its need for him to--

But then, Fadl roars and pushes back in, as deep into her guts as he can; he tears himself free of Zainab and covers Lina, pushing her into the cushions a ravisher. He moans, growls, claws at her body, beating his hips into her brutally, fucking her so violently it feels as if he's going to come out of her throat; yet Lina screams at this in delight, for this is exactly what she has been waiting for, yearning for. Letting go completely herself, she shoves both of her hands underneath her cunny and grinds against them, inciting Fadl on with her cries; only a few deep howls, the first few notes of her orgasm-song are enough to send her surging towards explosive release.

He thrusts into her between her cries, in exactly the perfect rhythm for them both; his fingers clawing at her ribs, burning her skin, he pounds her with such force that she needn't even move her own hips at all to maintain just the perfect pressure upon her cunny. Lina convulses underneath him, so violently she can feel her very womb curling underneath his prick; adores the way the tensing and releasing of her muscles, of her orgasm's waves are now transmitted into Fadl's body, echoing through two bodies at once. The ripples of his belly, the snaps of his hips, the leap of his cock inside of her beat the rhythm of his own undoing into her body in turn; the deep groans from his lungs, from his mouth pressed against her cheek, the scratch of his beard striking yet further waves of pleasure from the depths of her flesh. On and on, their bodies move, vibrate, echo into one another in perfect synchronicity, again like two instruments playing a duet; every muscle in her body is burning, her lungs empty from his weight upon her, her internal organs juddering from the impact of his prick but it's perfect, perfect.

Fadl keens, curling above her, crashing onto her and into her; Lina now so sensitive she can feel each splash of his sperm inside of her guts, wonderful, wonderful; she shudders hot and cold as his seed spills out of her, spraying out in drops upon her buttocks and thighs, dribbling onto her cunny as he keeps on driving into her. Finally, finally he is done, Lina is done, he having filled her to the brim glorious, aglow; thoroughly sated, trembling from exertion, they collapse together onto the cushions.

Exhausted, Fadl falls onto his left, clumsily attempting to pull Lina into his shaking arms; she slips off his prick first, shudders as her body closes itself again, shudders still as she curls up face to face with him. Both are too fatigued to speak, too fatigued to even embrace tightly, preferring to let the excess heat and sweat dissipate from their bodies.

Even Zainab will not disturb them with words; quietly, she but curls up behind Fadl to spoon him, her arm around his waist. With her hand, she cups his tender genitals, the softness of her palm upon them a blessing, a gesture soothing, protective: she knows better than to omit this ritual of tender reassurance after having so tormented someone.

For every lover needs to hear, especially after being so broken open, just how much his sacrifice is valued, just how much he is loved and cared for; needs to be reassured that the bruises he has received have not been given in hatred but only as the extremestmost form of physical love. That it has only been his resistance, his foolishness, his lower self that has been broken open by the lover so as to better reach his soul underneath, to better bathe it in love without these veils of human folly suffocating it on the way.

Groaning softly, Fadl presses back against Zainab and hugs Lina at the same time. "Closer," he mumbles.

"And he calls _me_ insatiable," Zainab chuckles against his neck and helps rearrange the three of them so that now Fadl is on his back, Lina and Zainab embracing him so that each of the women lies half on top of him. "Is that better?"

"Much," he mumbles, nuzzling them both.

"Before you ask," Lina says, yawning and stretching, "no, you didn't hurt me, and yes, you were a _most_ satisfactory lover."

" _Are_ a most satisfactory lover," Zainab rushes to add.

Fadl lets out a huff of a laugh. "By which you mean I still owe you that ride. Tomorrow?"

"To--tomorrow is fine," Zainab yawns, having caught it from Lina.

"Excellent," Fadl murmurs and gathers both women close, yawning himself. "Now, sleep."

"Now, _bedroom,_ " Lina moans. "We're going to ache everywhere tomorrow. I'd rather wake up to that pain in a real bed," she yawns again. "Underneath a blanket, so it won't hurt so much."

"Spoilsport," Zainab grumbles and starts gathering up her clothes and looking for water to wash herself with.

Thankfully, the harem isn't too far away; all stagger there, still embracing each other, unwilling to let go of each other, unwilling to abandon each other's warmth just yet.

Thus, the tall man staggers forwards as he tries to balance between two short women, while still hugging both close to himself; all of them stumble upon the carpet, nearly knocking down potted plants as they make their way to the grand bedroom.

From behind a curtained doorway, Anwar peeks into the corridor, having been awakened by the noise. Observing the staggering trio of love-drunkards, he is so glad at his relationship advice having been heeded that he has to bite his fist, so as not to give himself away with his squeaks of glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, erm, disproportionate and exaggerated doodle of what the girls do to Fadl's horsecock and balls [here.](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/fadlzainablinacbt.jpg) (Obviously, not safe for work.)
> 
> And another doodle, this time of Fadl joyously nomming Zainab's magical mound of magnificence, [here.](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/fadlzainabpussynom.jpg)


	12. Chapter 12

***

**Mecca**

***

Down her body pours light, down her palms pours Grace; down her face pour tears of ecstasy. 

Trembling, Salsabil sighs out the last words of her prayers, inaudible to anyone but God; her little frame swaying, staggering as she rises from the floor.

It is the end of the pilgrimage, and this tears at her heart. For she wants nothing more than to stay here, to eat sacrificial meat and to drink Zamzam water for the rest of her life; she wants to dwell in this holiness, this sweet lightness where the Presence of God is forever carrying her, rendering her weightless, as if she were floating in water. 

From her little attic room in the caravanserai, she looks out into the valley of the Kaaba, gazes joyous upon the spiral of white-clad believers circumambulating the House of God; her heart, too, crystal-clear, sun-bright, soars upon the wings of prayer to God on high, high.

The sun hits her eyes, piercing her through; light joining her light, _light upon light_ \--

\--Bright--

"Salsabil?"

She is upon the floor.

She is upon the floor, and tries to look up, but can only creak open her eyes a little; they are blurred and the light, suddenly too hot, sears her and hurts her. Her vision swims, blurs, blurs--

"Salsabil?" A double voice cries.

A shadow eclipses the sunlight, a black cloud. A cloud? No, no; this is no cloud. This is a dark so vast and so warm it is more like a black sun, haloed with rays of black light; rays jagged, curly, now swallowing Salsabil in their embrace. 

Yet this is no giant Leviathan of the deep, no scaly Bahamut, nor fall-scorched Iblis: rather, this is a softness as sweet as a mother's embrace, a fresh relief not unlike the rain's, the peaceful coolness of the night, the eve. 

"Salsabil, can you hear me?"

She is lifted, cradled by this mother-warmth; her face is sprinkled with a fragrant spray as if she were nuzzling a rose after rain; her feet, too, now sprinkled as if she were walking through grass adew. 

Then come the shadows of gnarled black tree trunks, tree trunks bending over her, swaying about her their long branches of ebony. Yet, these limbs carry upon themselves the sharp scent of pine: now, a tall, slim, swaying cypress takes off her veil and paints her neck with water, too, cooling down her heat.

Night prayers in her ears like crickets; night prayers like the nightingale, night prayers swimming like lithe fish in a pool, silvered by the moon. Silver and stars, cool as the night, cool as winter, winter and frost. Frost dancing upon her fingertips, frost numbing her toes and her feet; frosty air, air lapping in waves across her skin, her muscles rippling like grassfields in the wind.

"We must get her to her father," the softer voice says. "We must get her out of here, get her home as soon as possible."

"They are going to kill us," the older, hoarser, more melancholy voice laments. "They are going to kill us!"

"They are going to kill us only if we don't _do_ something," the softer voice says, her weight settling down next to Salsabil, the soft heat of her hands curling around her icy feet. "Merciful God; she is freezing! Bring me the lamp!"

The creak of metal hinges, the pouring of oil, the rustle of tinder and the click of flint against steel. Click, click, the sound of blowing; finally, a warmth brought next to her feet. 

"It's not much, but it will have to do," the melancholy voice apologises. "I will go downstairs and ask if they have a brazier, or some hot water at least."

"Thank you, my love," the warmth at the foot of the bed says, then turns towards Salsabil once again, her voice strained from worry. "Salsabil, can you hear me?" the warmth asks, her shape still but a mass of shadows within shadows, only lowly lit by the small lamp at Salsabil's feet.

Salsabil tries to speak, but only a sigh comes out; her teeth are chattering. 

She tries again. "Cold."

"I know," the warmth says, now coming to cup her face, the frizzy black curls now coming to brush Salsabil's chest and cheeks. "But you must think of warm things. Of the sun. Of fire. Of how much your mother, father and brother miss you and how they would not wish for you to freeze."

Mother, father, brother... these thoughts seem but distant, as if she were dreaming. Yes, dreaming: she tries to grasp the faces of her mother, her father and her brother but she cannot; she tries chasing them but she stumbles and falls over, panting, dizzy, their faces as blurred as the warm shadow that had spoken to her. All of her thoughts are hazy, vague and impossible to seize from beyond this mist that's now veiling her vision, from underneath the frost of her body, the heat of her heart and her guts. Why can she not come out? Why does the dream not go away when she wills herself to awaken?

"Why?" Salsabil mumbles.

The mother-warmth laughs nervously. "That's a question I have no answer for, my child; practically or philosophically. But what I _do_ know is that we have to get you home, as soon as possible. But if you are too ill to fly the carpet, I don't know how we are going to manage that."

"Fly?" Salsabil murmurs.

"Anything that's swifter than a caravan."

Flying... flying... flying carpets, flying horses. The dream of the flying horse Mother had had... Salsabil remembers, now. 

She feels herself a babe, in her mother's arms, flying across the sky like a bird, flying, free; so happy is she with the ecstasy of flight that now, she spreads her arms and her legs, so that she may be carried by the wind. She comes loose from her mother's grip, and her mother shrieks as Salsabil falls, falls free; but she is happy, she is glad, falling so sweetly, lightly, like a falcon plunging down in the sky. How strange that it should feel like rising when you are falling, she thinks--

"Salsabil!" the warmth cries in terror.

A series of soft slaps upon her cheeks; then, the creak of the door, two voices hurried, worried; hot water now rubbed upon her limbs with a wet cloth, hot water with camphor and spices, the smell of fragrant herbs upon burning coals. Basil upon her pillow, basil about her head; more camphor rubbed onto her feet.

"Don't you dare leave us," the warmth cries as she holds camphor underneath Salsabil's nose, camphor softening her muscles, camphor easing her shivering, her heat.

Within her mind, Salsabil has ceased falling; within her mind there is a light, and within that light, a boy haloed by the sun, like the Christians and Magians each portray their youthful Saviours. The boy has bright blue eyes with the most serious, intelligent of looks within them, a firm jut to his jaw, the promise of a moustache upon his upper lip--all telltale signs of a little man in the body of a child. 

The light shimmers behind this boy, indeed a sun, and now the boy frowns. 

The light has something to do with the boy, as if it were the key to something, the key to grasping what he is and who he is; somehow, somehow this key is the key to Salsabil's awakening, too. 

Light, light... snatches of the Verse of Light echo in her ears and then retreat, until finally, only one word--Light--begins to revolve in her head, a calligraphic flourish circling, rotating around the halo about the boy's head. 

Light, light; for Light is the Sun-Son's name--oh, it must be; it must be he.

"Anwar?" she croaks.

"What on earth have you done _now,_ silly?" the boy asks her, frowning; the halo around his head turns into a round, yellow pillow upon which his head rests, a pillow upon his bed, a bed she does not recognise. "Salsabil? Where are you?"

"Mecca... not silly. Pilgrimage... duty."

"And now you are ill," the boy says, sighing wearily, just like their father does when he finds them doing something unwise. "And if you are ill, that must mean you can't get home. And somehow, _I_ am going to have to get you back, because you're in trouble, and you can't tell Mother and Father, or they would get mad. Is that not right?"

"What is she saying? Who is she talking to?" the older, melancholy voice asks. 

"She said 'Anwar,'" the warmth says and squeezes Salsabil's hand. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was, indeed, him she were talking to; you know what they're like. Perhaps he really can hear her."

"I can only hope he can hear us, too," the older voice murmurs. "Anwar, if you are there, please help us if you can. Your sister is very ill, delirious with fever, and we must get her back to Samarkand as swiftly as we can."

The boy in the vision looks as if he is listening. He looks down, his lower lip jutting the way it does whenever he is deep in thought, deeply involved in trying to solve a problem. 

"I will think of something, sister," he says.

"Promise, brother," Salsabil murmurs, so weakly it's barely audible. "Hurry... hurry."

"I promise," the boy says, his hand upon his heart, the halo about his head brighter and brighter until he dissolves into the light and is gone.

And then, there is only blackness, but there is also warmth, the warmth of the camphor, the warmth of twin bodies on either side of her, and Salsabil falls into a deep, restful sleep. 

***

**A few hours later**

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

It is the hour of dawn, a dawn humid and misty wrapping itself about The Blue House. 

Yassamin, unable to sleep for her worry, is gathering herbs in the courtyard garden; she had been wandering about the house aimlessly, but has finally decided to do something useful now that she is awake, to try and distract herself with work. 

Thus, using her apron as a basket, she goes over every little plant in their herbarium, a white-robed ghost ambling slowly between the elevated, waist-high marble beds. Veilless, her hair hanging loose, she plucks the herbs, even the delicate thyme, leaf by leaf instead of by the sprig: for this will take longer, and thus distract her for longer, she reasons.

It is then that she spies something from the corner of her eye, a distant figure moving within the mist: framed by the shadowed arch of the gateway, this figure is moving slowly towards the house with an eerie steadiness, gliding towards it within the morning's green and white haze. 

_Why, is that a fellow phantom?_ she laughs inwardly. Swiftly, she picks up her apron, clasping it with her hands to keep the herbs safe; curious, she tiptoes her way underneath the arch of the gateway, knowing how to do this without being seen herself.

Outside the short tunnel of the gateway, the grassy fields are covered with a mist hanging over the road a winter shawl, soft and thick; but it is what Yassamin now sees approaching the house that makes her freeze in terror, shock.

For it is a child upon a horse, a young boy riding towards her, a young boy upon a bay mare. 

_Anwar._

It is Anwar, Anwar riding home in the dawn, far too early in the morning for something to not have gone awry; this is no ordinary, happy homecoming, no ordinary ride.

For it is no ordinary horse, this; it is one Yassamin would recognise anywhere, just as she recognises its rider for her only son.

Indeed, Yassamin knows this horse, knows it all too well: knows its true nature by its eerily smooth, even gait and the empty, dead glaze in its eyes. The gait whose mechanisms she had built with her own hands, delighted at having achieved such elegance with her fine-tuning of the legs' springs; the eyes of onyx Jaffar had polished and set into the horse's head himself, glowing with pride as he'd declared that that day, Yassamin had surpassed him in engineering skill. 

Indeed, this is Shahbaz, the flying horse she and Jaffar had built for Fadl a year ago; then, it had been the only thing that could take him swiftly enough to the earthquake-ravaged Balkh, so as to offer his subjects the help they needed when they needed it the most.

Yet Yassamin had forgotten all about this horse, had thought Fadl had left it behind in Balkh; she had no idea he had brought it back to Samarkand with him. 

But... no. This simply cannot be. This cannot be real, cannot be happening. This _has_ to be but another nightmare, but a horror cooked up by the vapours of an ill brain, just as Jaffar has been telling her. _A dream, a dream..._

Trembling, clutching her apron so hard that her hands burn from the linen, she treads slowly through the gateway to face horse and rider.

Yet, as they emerge fully into view, she loses all hope of this being but a mirage, a dream.

Indeed, it is her child.

_"But in all the old stories, the fate of the hero caught up with him anyhow, no matter what he did!"_

Her child, upon a flying horse. 

_"Anwar is right!"_

Her child, upon a flying horse, with a cry of help in his eyes.

_"That's how prophecies **work!** "_

Her fate has caught up with her; her nightmares have come home to stay.

She lets out such a cry it is as if her soul were being torn out of her breast: a cry so terrible it still rings in the gateway, rings through the courtyard as she falls down to her knees. 

She falls down to her knees, the herbs flying everywhere. They flutter about her, yet this time, there is to her no blessing in their fragrance: only the scent of herbs funerary, herbs scattered over a grave in farewell.

Farewell to her happiness, farewell to her children. 

Is this it, then? 

Is this what must be? 

_Is this your Will, my Lord?_

She covers her face with her hands, wetting her palms with quiet, hopeless tears.

_Must I? And even then, should I? Could I? Would I? If it means Anwar's death, the death of Salsabil, the death of myself? Must I? Would I do what I must? Must I, must I?_

From between her fingers, she can see hooves: too-symmetrical, too-perfect hooves, shod with too-pristine shoes. 

"Mother?"

She looks up, and the mist has gone, revealing the newly risen sun: its golden disc a halo around Anwar's head, his face in the shadows as he holds out to her his hand. 

From his mind to hers flit images of a Salsabil in fever, Salsabil in Mecca, Salsabil sweating and writhing between the twin despairs of Sonbol and Zahra. And beyond, the muezzin crying out the call to dawn prayer outside their window, Salsabil's teeth rattling with such violent chills Yassamin can feel them in her own. 

_"Hasten towards prayer, hasten towards well-being! Prayer is better than sleep! God is Great. God is Great!"_

She knows what she must do, knows there is no time to lose. Just as the prayer rises to Heaven, so does she now rise unto her feet, lithe and swift; rises as dead souls do upon Judgement Day.

"May God forgive me; may Jaffar forgive me; may my family and my loved ones forgive me," she murmurs as she undoes her apron and takes Anwar's hand.

She mounts the horse behind Anwar, binds him tightly against herself with her apron and together, they take off in the direction of Mecca: holding on tight, they ascend to the brightening dawn sky.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some doodles:
> 
>  [Zahra, the warm sun bending over Salsabil with love and worry in her eyes.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/689726)
> 
>  [Anwar in Salsabil's vision, and the morning Yassamin's destiny arrives to meet her.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/712610)


	13. Chapter 13

***

**A few hours later**

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

"I know," Jaffar says, not turning around from his kneeling position as Lina and Fadl rush into the prayer room, the latter with sword in hand. "Put up your sword, brother, and wait awhile."

Restless, Lina and Fadl decline seats, both pacing and fidgeting as Jaffar finishes his prayers.

Indeed, these prayers take a fair amount of time, as both of them soon discover to their amazement; Jaffar but keeps on prostrating and offering several additional prayers of supplication.

"How can he remain so calm at a moment like this?" Fadl whispers in Lina's ear.

"He is planning, I suppose," Lina whispers back. "Or perhaps, he's bargaining with God."

Finally, Jaffar raises his head and sighs, his hands upon his knees; he gets up and turns to greet his visitors. Yet he does not seem calm at all, rather like he has aged a decade in a day; now, Fadl is ashamed for his words--which he knows Jaffar must've heard--as he looks upon his brother's face.

For it is a face streaked with tears, Jaffar's eyes even brighter a blue now that the whites of his eyes have turned pink from weeping; upon his uncovered head, his hair falls down frizzy, uncombed, gray. He must have come here to pray as soon as he'd woken up, must have learned of what had happened somehow; through his magics, most likely.

"Where is Zainab?" Jaffar asks.

"She has a headache," Lina says, surprised he even asks such a question.

"Nevermind Zainab!" Fadl cries, exasperated, his hand upon the hilt of his now-sheathed sword. "Where is Anwar? We looked all over for him, and if he's not here, where is he? And where's Yassamin?"

"She... she's gone," Jaffar sighs, looking at the carpet, his hands lax by his sides. "With Salsabil."

When Fadl and Lina look at him askance, Jaffar realises they must not have heard the news of Salsabil's impromptu pilgrimage. Of course: Anwar had already left for Thousand Suns before Salsabil had taken flight.

Oh, but he has to laugh; this laughter comes out mad, bitter, high as he wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "You see, it's only that my wife and my children seem to have all spontaneously developed a singular religious fervour, a fervour so intense that they have all decided to perform the pilgrimage without so much as a by-your-leave!" he says with a wave of his hand towards the prayer-niche. "In fact, I was just asking the Lord if He had but decided to scoop them all up in His palm, going by the rush by which they were taken up, like souls upon Judgement Day!"

"But you just told us, when we came in, that you already knew?" Lina asks, frowning.

"Aye," Jaffar nods and strides into the half of the room that ordinarily serves as the children's classroom. "Come, sit down and I'll explain," he says, waving at the cushions with impatience.

"It's about time you did," Fadl says and lays his sabre over his knees. "And _please,_ do so from the beginning."

"Very well. The long and the short of it is that Salsabil learned how to fly a carpet. I know, I know;" he says and raises his hand just as Fadl raises a disbelieving eyebrow. "But as you can see," he says and points to a carpetless gap on the floor otherwise covered in prayer rugs, "her carpet is gone, and so is she. She was so eager to join Zahra and Sonbol on their pilgrimage that God decided to reward her for this desire--well, at least I _hope_ it was supposed to be a reward--by transporting her to Mecca upon it."

"How did you learn it was Mecca, specifically?" Lina asks.

"I gave Zahra one of these," Jaffar says and lifts a little mirror from his pocket. "So that she could reach me if there was an emergency. That was tempting Fate, I suppose," he winces. "But Zahra spoke to us through it and there she was, Salsabil, our little dervish spinning away with God-intoxicated joy. Yassamin and I took the hint and decided not to interfere with God's plans."

He pauses there, his hands upon his knees again, sighing as he looks at the beams of light streaming through the stained-glass windows. "Until this morning, that is. I can feel her, you know. Yassamin. Even if she were a thousand miles away," he says quietly, clasping his hand over his eyes. "I can feel that she is heading towards Mecca, and with her, just faintly, I can feel Anwar, too. And it's because something awful has happened to Salsabil; I can barely feel her at all. Only disjointed thoughts, images, when ordinarily, Salsabil's mind is so sharp and clear. Perhaps she is ill; perhaps that's why they left so suddenly, without a word."

Fadl and Lina exchange glances. "So that's why he took it," Fadl says bluntly, nodding. "And not an ordinary horse."

"Took what?" Jaffar croaks, peeking from between his fingers, stiffening.

Fadl tenses, hesitates before he speaks, looking at Lina and squirming a little. "Well... Shahbaz, I mean."

" _Shahbaz?!_ " Jaffar cries, leaping upwards with such violence he knocks the Qur'an stand over; in his fury, he does not even pause to apologise to the Holy Book for such blasphemous treatment. In fact, to Fadl's horror, he looks as if he is about to kick it.

Yet, as it has fallen open upon a miniature of the Prophet upon the Miraj--his night ride through the heavens, carried by the magical bewinged beast, Buraq--Jaffar but laughs, now hysterically, his hands in his hair, the veins bulging upon his temples, his thin body heaving as he stares and stares at the illustration, his eyes terrible and wide.

"My God... my God... my God..." he keens quietly in his throat, swaying; his voice is now hoarse from the scream he'd let out.

Lina and Fadl daren't say a word.

Yet, out of respect, Fadl finally turns up the bookstand, picks up the Qur'an, whispers a quiet prayer of apology over it and lays it back where it had sat, still open at the page depicting the Miraj. He needn't try and read Jaffar's mind to feel what he feels, now: he looks at the angels with flaming haloes, of Buraq's maiden face--like Salsabil's, complete with braids and cap--and wonders whether this means Jaffar's children are indeed saints, or doomed to a hideous death. What is the purpose of this, of God engineering for them such a complex way to perform the pilgrimage, so fraught with danger? Especially as this is a pilgrimage they would have, in all likelihood, been able to perform at some point anyway?

"What is the meaning of this?" Fadl has to ask out loud.

"I wish I knew, brother mine," Jaffar murmurs, again falling to his knees. "I wish I knew. Rescuing the children from that maniac of yours was one thing, but from... _God?!_ If we have to rescue them in the first place, that is."

"Well, whatever His will, I doubt He wishes for us to but sit here and lament our fate," Fadl says.

Lina looks from Fadl to Jaffar. "Come, you said you could talk to Zahra in Mecca through your crystal, is that not right?"

"Crystals, mirrors, anything will do," Jaffar mumbles, picking the mirror up again. "In theory. Provided the window at _their_ end of the energy channel is working, too. I tried to reach them today, obviously, but there was no response. Granted, I was too agitated to concentrate, and they may not have had time to notice the mirror at all if they're in trouble," he sighs. "Or worse, they could have been parted from the mirror altogether," he says and covers his face with his hands again.

"Let me try?" Lina offers, moving to sit opposite to Jaffar.

"Doesn't operating a magic device require a little something called _faith?_ " Fadl quips.

Jaffar but glares at him and hands Lina the mirror. "Rather the energy of your bright Diana than the bitterness of his Saturn. Be my guest."

"Right," Lina says, crossing her legs and laying the mirror upon the floor between them all. "This is not unlike those magic windows we had underneath Afrasiyab, is it?"

"It's far simpler," Jaffar says and taps at the mirror. "If you could operate one of those, you can operate this."

Fadl crawls closer, curious despite his sarcasm; of course, he'd never seen the mirrors underneath Afrasiyab, had only heard of them.

"Wait," he says, grabbing Jaffar's arm. He looks at Jaffar, searching his eyes; a chill goes through Jaffar at the despair in Fadl's gaze, knowing that look for something far more than just his everyday cynicism. "How do we know that they will still be..." he squeezes Jaffar's arm, casting down his eyes. "That we will not be too late?"

The muscles upon Jaffar's jaw tighten. "There's only one way to find out," he rasps. "Take my hands," he says, offering one to both Fadl and Lina. "And now, take each other's. Lina, you fix your mind upon the mirror, and recite these words after me."

They do as they are told, and the mirror expands, vitrifying into a glossy, light-devouring dark space, as black as a crystal is clear: it is like looking into a moonless midnight, Lina thinks. There is no sound, no light, nothing coming in through it; she looks up at Jaffar, querying.

Jaffar but squeezes her hand. "Zahra! Zahra, can you hear me?" he cries out loudly, enunciating clearly. "Sonbol? Sonbol?"

Yet still, there is no answer.

"Salsabil?" Jaffar cries.

 _"God,"_ Fadl mutters under his breath.

Jaffar but keeps on staring at the mirror, determined. "We must try to reach them psychically, to try and call to them with our minds. If you two can help me to make the call louder, as it were, perhaps we can get them to notice."

"Who do you have the strongest connection with?" Lina asks Jaffar. "Yassamin?"

"Yassamin," Jaffar nods. "But we don't know if she's there yet, and if Salsabil is ill, it is Zahra who is our best hope. Thus, let us focus on her."

"Perhaps I should withdraw," Fadl winces. "Zahra hates the very thought of me, and deservedly so."

Jaffar but squeezes his hand harder, a little smile upon the corners of his lips. "Perhaps that'll do it; the very thought of you might be annoying enough for her to notice her mirror." He turns to address them both. "Now. Close your eyes and think of Zahra, as hard as you can. Affectionately _and respectfully,_ mind you," Jaffar says to Fadl with a raise of his eyebrow, ignoring Fadl's glare at his stating the obvious--for such things truly aren't as obvious to Fadl as one would hope, as Jaffar and Lina both know.

For long moments, they concentrate upon the mirror, Jaffar even repeating Zahra's name like a mantra to help them focus. Slowly, gently, as if water being poured from a pitcher into two bowls, his thoughts start to flow into Fadl and Lina's minds.

Lina is, at first, alarmed by this intrusion; now, she can even feel the fragrance of Zahra's favourite perfumes, hear the sounds and smell the scents of her favourite activities like cuisine and crafts: the clinking of needles being picked from a box, the rich scent of expertly spiced and stewed dishes and Jaffar's thoughts of how even the best chefs of the Caliphs could not compare. And how this is all due to the amount of love Zahra puts into everything she does: she has never been _forced_ into working in the kitchens or into sewing unlike so many other women, let alone slaves, having from her girlhood been a maid of honour to a queen. Thus, she takes great relish in being able to live an ordinary woman's life, tending to her household and Yassamin's children as her own. In fact, Lina can hear even the more embarrassing--and thus, quickly suppressed--thought of Jaffar's: that Zahra has always excelled at this ordinary housewife's life, completely unlike Yassamin who is still, after all these years, struggling to adapt to no longer being a queen.

Fadl, for his part, is astounded by all this, never having seen Zahra as more than just a manumitted scullery-maid: as he now sees Zahra as she is in her private life--reading books to the children, teaching them Scripture, always supporting the nervous and agitated Yassamin with her unyielding, natural strength, faith and wisdom--he is ashamed of ever having thought so little of her. If anything, the thoughts he sends in Zahra's direction are both praising and apologetic, a plea for her forgiveness--as much as his arrogant nature, that which his Shaykh had always called in him the bull--rebels against such.

A sudden tap startles them all.

As the mirror remains dark, they at first look around, not realising that the sound had come from the mirror until the tap is repeated: a sharp _tap-tap,_ as if a fingernail tapping upon glass.

"Zahra, is that you?" Jaffar asks, leaning towards the mirror, squinting into its still-dark surface.

However, now the darkness is streaked by grayness, as if thin clouds: behind them, vague movement, shades so dark brown that they only stand out for Lina, Jaffar and Fadl's eyesight being much dimmer from age.

"I can see something," Lina says, excited. "Zahra? Can you hear us?"

A muffled voice speaks to them, its words unintelligible; it's as if it's coming from beyond a wall.

"We can barely hear you, whoever you are," Jaffar cries. "Come closer! Shout if you must."

"Jaffar?" the muffled voice intones, the syllables only vaguely audible.

"Yes!" Jaffar says. "Zahra, if it's you, tap the mirror three times."

At the sound of these three taps, all breathe a sigh of relief.

"Zahra," Jaffar continues, now practically shouting into the mirror. "We haven't got much time. You have not heard of the prophecy, have you? Of Yassamin's nightmare? Did Salsabil tell you about it, at all?"

The voice answers something like "No, no;" it's rushed, agitated itself.

"Well, if Yassamin shows up, you must _not_ allow her to take Salsabil on the flying horse, do you hear me? A catastrophe awaits if they do that. Whatever you do--"

There is a groan of agony, ending in a choked sob.

"Master?" another voice echoes through the mirror, now clearer. A dim image appears, but it is that of Sonbol instead of Zahra: a Sonbol very grave, behind whom sits Zahra, crumpled up on a bed in anguish, her face in her hands.

Jaffar tries to speak, but his voice catches in his throat; now, he begins to tremble, and it takes a few tries for him to speak again. "Sonbol? Sonbol... what has happened?"

"Father, they've left!" Anwar suddenly runs into the room, out of breath. "Mother has just ridden off!" he cries, his eyes wide from worry.

"But Anwar, you _knew_ about the dream!" Jaffar moans. "Why did you bring her the horse, and not ask me first?!"

"Salsabil was dying! Mother wanted to leave straight away. Besides, it was the only thing we _could_ do, Mother said; that she _had_ to do it, just like in the dream. That's why she left me here; she said it had to be just her and Salsabil. She said that if this is God's will, we must obey it."

"I tried to stop them," Zahra groans from behind them, unable to even look at the mirror. "I tried..."

Sonbol looks at Zahra, then at the mirror. "Do not blame them, master. The mistress was in and out like a lightning-flash; she practically tore her daughter from our arms, bundled her up and ran away."

"I ran after them," Anwar pants, "and told Mother to stop, but she didn't listen," he says and now, he, too, bursts into tears. "I'm so sorry, Father;" he sobs. "I'm so sorry," he wails. "I only tried to help! Salsabil asked me to bring the horse, and I didn't want her to die, and I'm scared of coming back, wha-what with the ba-bandits and the-the pe-pestilence and--" and now, he becomes too hysterical to speak, sobbing into his hands.

"There are no stubborner creatures in existence than those two women!" Jaffar groans, staring at the ceiling, blinking away tears. "My God, my God... if Thou truly art merciful, now would be a _bloody_ good time to show it!"

***

**The sky, somewhere over Persia**

***

High above, the wind whips through Yassamin's hair, freezes her cheeks, but she doesn't care; Salsabil's little body burns against her chest, making her sweat with heat and shiver with cold at the same time. She is full of nausea, delirious, feverish herself; yet she is determined, sure in her flight.

For all that matters to her now is that she ride this arrow God has let loose from His bow, this arrow that is called Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud of Basra; that she submit to her destiny as written out for her in His book.

For if this is how things are meant to be--this mad, fantastical dream--then, so be it: had she defied this, would she not have risked hellfire? Hellfire for both her and her daughter, her little daughter burning against her heart; eternal dryness and scorching heat, like that of the deserts spreading underneath her.

Oh, but she should not have looked down; holding tightly onto the reins, she pulls her apron--now a makeshift hood--tighter about her head and her face, so that the cold air will not freeze off her cheeks. For some strange reason, some bizarre hope--perhaps planted in her heart by Jaffar's firm faith--makes her believe that they can make it, that they can yet land safely in Samarkand, and that she will need her cheeks for many years still!

And this is what she fixes her mind upon, wishes and wills for a long life yet to be lived, awaiting her at the end of their journey, a body to enjoy it all with: thinks of her children still kissing her cheeks when she bids them goodnight, thinks of Jaffar's hands still cupping her face as his mouth whispers love onto her lips; thinks of the warm steam of their bathhouse caressing her face, her nose still being able to smell the fragrance of perfumes, her tongue still being able to relish a hearty stew. That she will still have skin to brush against Jaffar's, flesh to press against his, a sex to glide onto his; that once again, their souls will entwine as deeply as their bodies do, two halves of the same being.

Indeed, surely she cannot die without him, since they are but the one person, one soul in two bodies, and right now, their bodies are far apart? _A madwoman's thoughts, these,_ whispers some quiet voice in the very back of her skull, but she does not care: her will is louder, God's Will louder still.

There is a little whimper, and Salsabil moves within the bundled-up blanket Yassamin is carrying her in; with great difficulty, Salsabil nuzzles her face free from underneath the blanket's and the robe's folds. Her eyes are wide, clear, a blue paler than the midday sky they are flying in right now; they stare up at Yassamin with a clarity that is terrifying. It is obvious Salsabil has only just woken up enough to realise that she is no longer dreaming, that she has just realised where she is and what is happening, realised that this is exactly what her mother had tried to prevent from happening. Horror twists at her face, a sickly yellow-white; there are red blotches upon her cheeks, like slap-marks given to her by her fever.

Salsabil stiffens, looks as if she is going to be sick; with difficulty, she focuses her eyes upon Yassamin.

"I love you, Mother," Salsabil murmurs, so quietly Yassamin cannot fully hear the words; she can only see them upon her lips, hear them with her mind, feel them as they beat out from Salsabil's heart to hers.

"And I love you, my sweet little daughter, no matter what may come," Yassamin whispers, thinks, beats from her heart to Salsabil's.

Indeed, is this not the truest pilgrimage one can make? For it is not an empty ritual, not one performed merely out of duty but out of pure love, pure devotion; indeed, a self-sacrifice performed purely out of one's free will? Yassamin's soul feels clean and light, now, empty of sin; empty of all the miserable little everyday sorrows that had so plagued it before. That she could've ever let herself be depressed over some failed engineering project, over some silly row between the children, over Jaffar's absent-mindedness when now, her child's life and the fate of her own soul are at stake! Truly, she has been humbled, purged of vain sorrows.

"I am still sorry," Salsabil murmurs. "Sorry for running away like that, sorry for getting ill, sorry that--" she closes her eyes and shivers.

"You are forgiven, my child. It is _I_ who should ask for _your_ forgiveness for not having come sooner."

Indeed, even by air, the journey is a long one: that makes Yassamin risk a glance downwards, to get at least some idea of how close to home they are. The deserts are far behind them, now, it seems, as is the great blue glimmer of the Caspian Sea; therefore, the long green stretches of lush forests and fields now stretching out before them can only be those of Khurasan. It's not as if she could ever forget this stunning abundance of green, this lush vastness of verdant life that had so astonished her nine years ago when they had first moved here; even from this high above, it again feels as if she were being gathered into the emerald velvet embrace of Mother Earth herself.

"It's Sogdia beneath us, my child," she whispers to Salsabil, kissing her forehead. "We'll soon be home."

Yet, Salsabil squirms in her bundle. "I'm terribly hot, Mother."

"It's freezing!"

"But I can't breathe," she groans, stretching out her neck. "Please--" she wheezes.

"It's not long, now," Yassamin says, willing the horse to go faster, as fast as it can; she invokes in her mind a vision of The Blue House and its surrounding countryside, so that the horse may follow the riverbed of the Sogd to find its way home. Indeed, she can see the glimmering silver ribbon of the great river right now: elation fills her heart as swiftly, the horse makes its way further southeast down its course.

"But I'm burning," Salsabil moans, now louder; her forehead is damp with sweat, so damp it wets Yassamin's nightshirt. "Mother, I'm burning!"

"Shh. Think of home. We'll soon get you to the baths, scrub you down with hot and cold water, then get some strong tea in you. It will be all right."

"Tea is hot. Baths are hot!" Salsabil groans and squirms further, now so energetically Yassamin has trouble holding on to her.

"Steady!" Yassamin cries, yanking Salsabil against herself, horrified.

"I just want to breathe!" Salsabil cries, now having freed one hand from the blanket, again delirious from her fever.

"Soon, you will be able to! Look--actually, don't look--but that's Uncle Fadl's house right there, just underneath us," Yassamin says as the horse descends, only some hundred feet above the ground, now. "Yes, that's his yellow house, and there are the orange trees, lots and lots of orange trees. We're almost home."

"Mother, let me go!" Salsabil cries, now tearing at her blanket, pushing herself away from Yassamin with great violence. "It's fine! I can find my way home from here!"

"Salsabil!" Yassamin shrieks, she and the entire horse jerking, rearing as she tries to hold on to both Salsabil and the horse. "I order you to _stay still!_ "

"And I told you it's all right, Mother! I am lighter than the horse, much lighter," she laughs, her eyes blazing, light, her laughter high and mad. "I just need to draw in a little more air," and she draws in a lungful, her entire body straining as she fills herself with it, "and I will be like the birds--look!" She raises her hand, "Look how it's glowing! It's full of light, full of air, like birds' bones--"

Yassamin clutches her arm around Salsabil, but misses: already, Salsabil has spread her arms and is sliding out of her blanket and dangling off the saddle, a dazzling smile upon her face. "Look! I told you!" she squeals, now only her legs in Yassamin's lap, the rest of her waving free: "Like a bird!"

"Salsabil!" Yassamin sprains a muscle in her shoulder as she jerks down to catch Salsabil, Shahbaz staggering as Yassamin loses her focus, the horse no longer receiving guidance from her. Yassamin slides half out of the saddle as she grabs Salsabil by her robe, her fingernails snapping, her every muscle burning as she tries to pull Salsabil back up.

"Get back! Get up! Get up!" Yassamin screams at both Salsabil and the horse, but as the horse suddenly yanks itself up and leaps forwards, she loses her grip on Salsabil.

And it is just as it was in her dream: Salsabil falling, with an ecstatic smile upon her face, her robe billowing around her like angels' wings, and Yassamin herself slides out of the saddle, falling after her, weightless, now, too--falling high into the sky like a bird--like a bird plummeting--mother reaching out to daughter, two white doves plunging down, down, the earth coming up, the blackness, the darkness, speeding towards them faster and faster--

Until both are swallowed by the darkness, a darkness warm, and neither can see no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doodles of Fadl and Lina meeting a frazzled Jaffar in the prayer room [here](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/jaffarfadllinaprayerroom.jpg) and Yassamin and Salsabil in flight [here](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/yassaminsalsabilflight.jpg).


	14. Chapter 14

***

**The Blue House, Samarkand**

***

A cry most terrible rings in the courtyard of The Blue House as Jaffar runs outside, barefoot, his slippers having fallen off his feet; he shouts, wails, screams until he can taste blood in his mouth, runs where he'd seen his wife and child plummet down. He runs until blood stains his feet; he runs and he runs like the cheetah, his mind empty of everything except horror, his vision completely red. He stumbles upon rocks, falls down, bruises his arms and his knees but despite the pain, he but keeps on running, running; running bloodied, raw, bare.

It was just beyond the road to the mosque--just beyond this meadow--just beyond this little hill--

When Fadl and Lina finally reach Jaffar, he has fainted onto the grass, just before a small patch of forest lining the meadow. Above them, caught in the treetops hangs a mess tattered, something too leathern and too metallic to be a bird or its nest; from beyond it rises a small curl of smoke, as if from a campfire. There are pieces of broken metal and horse hide dangling from the trees, springs and cogs and tack ringing in the wind as if grotesque wind-chimes; where Jaffar has fainted, lays a herb-stained white apron he is still clutching in his fist.

"My God," Fadl moans and falls onto his knees.

Yet, from the corner of her eye, Lina can see movement between the trees. Unceremoniously, she pulls Fadl's sword out of its scabbard--he is too numbed to even care, let alone resist--and tiptoes carefully towards the cluster of ash and birch and willow. _Let her find what remains to be found,_ Fadl thinks as she begins to hack away at the willows; he has seen enough corpses of his loved ones for a lifetime.

Yet, the cry that soon stirs both Fadl and Jaffar is one of surprise. "Come!" Lina shouts at the men. "Come, quickly!"

Fadl makes it through the trees first, Jaffar a little more slowly: but what they see in the small clearing stuns them both into full wakefulness.

For now, Lina is helping up a scratched and bruised Anwar; behind them, Zahra is plucking grass and twigs from her robe, feeling for her limbs; behind her, Sonbol is trying to reach a great colourful sack of fabric caught between the trees, a sack that looks as if a travelling giant had dropped his lunchbag in the forest.

This bag, it turns out, is a large, bundled-up carpet: from within it, issue faint, light voices, distressed; caught inside, someone is trying to get out.

No, in fact it's _two_ someones: it's clear these are the voices of Salsabil and Yassamin.

"I don't believe it!" Fadl sputters.

"You had better, brother!" Jaffar cries and elated, leaps to Sonbol's aid. "What happened?"

"Her faith," Sonbol nods towards Zahra, "and his," he nods towards Anwar, "a flying carpet, and a daring rescue happened," he says, shaking his head. "As a matter of fact, I don't quite believe it myself."

"Are you all right, my loves?" Jaffar cries, now trying to climb the trees to see Salsabil and Yassamin.

"I've been better," Yassamin groans from inside the bundle. "But this young lady is mad with fever; I pray you, if you have any magic left for today, get her out as soon as you can."

"All right; brace yourselves," Jaffar says, gesturing for Sonbol, Zahra, Fadl and Lina to arrange themselves underneath the rug-bag, ready to catch the women. "I am going to tear open the rug. This may burn a little. I will count to three--"

And soon enough, Yassamin falls straight into Jaffar's arms; he groans with relief and hugs her against his face tight, tight. "Now, I think we've all had enough adventures and pilgrimages for the time being. Agreed?"

"Agreed," everyone groans in unison--

\--everyone except Salsabil, who promptly faints into the long grass.

"Come on, then," Fadl says as he picks up his wayward niece. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

"Good question," Jaffar says as he begins to carry Yassamin towards the house, his fatigue completely gone--he feels full of energy more than anything else, a young man again from his relief, so that she is to him as light as a feather. "Oh, and Zahra," he says over his shoulder. "You and Sonbol can take--no, you are _under orders_ to take the rest of the month off. No great celebratory meals, now, at least not cooked by you; no great feasts, unless they are prepared by someone else than you two. I insist."

"All right," Zahra laughs and picks the tatters of her veil from her hair, shaking her curls loose. "But what I do in my own apartment is my own business, and incidentally, there will be a great urnful of tea brewing there in about... an hour from now. And wheat cakes, if you have any left. I insist."

Jaffar laughs. "Fair enough."

"Bath first," Anwar says, picking sticks and leaves from his hair and making a face every time he finds a new one. " _I_ insist!"

***

Herbal teas, tinctures and magical ointments, in addition to good baths, help soothe the best and the worst of the wounds; Jaffar keeps a watchful eye on everyone, so as to make sure they all take their medicines and his orders of a good rest seriously.

The first evening after the crash, Anwar asks Sonbol and Zahra a hundred questions about their journey, about Mecca, and they answer to the best of their ability. The Meccan part of the pilgrimage itself had gone well, although by the end of it, Salsabil had got into an argument with a religious judge, they tell him: apparently, she had refuted the old man's logic with hers so thorougly that it had stunned the entire crowd gathered around them. Too wise to argue after he had been defeated, too noble to be rude about it, the judge had admitted Salsabil's genius at Quranic exegesis--and promptly, asked for her hand in marriage! At this offer, Salsabil had but shrieked in terror and run away, the miniature saint again become the little girl she truly was; the entire crowd had burst into laughter, but the judge had reminded Sonbol and Zahra that his offer was serious and that it would remain standing, were she to ever reconsider.

"But how did you fly the carpet?" Jaffar asks.

"As I said, it was the faith of these two," Sonbol smiles at Zahra and Anwar. "It was Anwar that suggested it, that we all pray as hard as we could, just as Salsabil had done, so that we could follow the horse's route. Thanks to God's mercy, it worked, and we made it just in time: we caught them just as the horse fell. The willows, thankfully, broke our fall, so that we were not crushed by the horse," he shudders.

"Again, you belittle yourself too much, my love," Zahra says to Sonbol and lays her head upon his bony shoulder. "Your faith is as strong as my and Anwar's put together; it is you who are the bedrock of our faith, our support."

"How can I ever thank you two enough?" Jaffar asks them. "Even if I emptied all my coffers to cover you in gold, that would not come even near the value of all these souls you've saved."

"Oh, it's nothing," Sonbol says, waving his hand dismissively.

"I mean it," Jaffar says, looking at Zahra. "Is there anything you two are in want of, anything you need that I have forgotten to give you, the old fool I am? I will grant you pensions twice as high as what you are getting now, will hire new servants so that you will never have to work another day in your lives--"

"Don't you dare!" Zahra cries. "I mean that... it's not as if the pensions would be unwelcome, master--I mean, Jaffar--but I protest at being made redundant! I will _not_ have any strangers take over _my_..." she almost says 'my household'--"well, the house _is_ my responsibility, is it not?"

"And I do _not_ want anyone else as governess!" Anwar says and clings to Zahra's robe. "And neither does Salsabil; I know it. Please, do not fire them, Father! Please!"

Jaffar shakes his head, smiling. "I am not going to fire anyone. I was but thinking of your welfare, of your happiness and your health, and of how I could make your lives better; but of course, what exactly that betterment should entail, I leave for you to decide."

"Really, it's nothing!" Sonbol groans, embarrassed.

"I insist!" Jaffar groans even louder. "Come, Sonbol! Now is not the time for false--or pious--modesty. If you love me, _please_ accept whatever it is that I can give you."

"Let us think about it and give you our answer on the morrow," Sonbol says, gravely, exchanging glances with Zahra. "For I would not burden you too much, and neither would Zahra."

Jaffar nods. "Very well. But I assure you," he lifts his hand to his heart, "nothing would be too much for me. I owe to you not only my family's life, but my own--God knows I would not have been able to go on living had I lost them. And even if I have said this a hundred times before," he says, reaching out to squeeze both Sonbol and Zahra's hands, "know that you _are_ a part of our family; dare I say, even closer to our hearts than some of our blood-kin are."

"We are glad," Zahra says with a smile, squeezing Jaffar's hand back.

"And now, if you will all excuse me," Jaffar says and gets up, "I have to go and relieve Yassamin."

Indeed, Yassamin has been keeping vigil beside Salsabil's bed from the moment they'd emerged from the baths, and it is about time Jaffar fetched her so that she can get some rest.

"I'll come with you," Zahra says, getting up with Jaffar, gathering up her robes. "Just in case she refuses to listen to reason again."

"Very likely," Jaffar says, raising his eyebrow. "Thank you, Zahra. And goodnight, you two," Jaffar says and embraces both Anwar and Sonbol tight.

Jaffar most certainly does need Zahra as his deputy: for as they arrive in the children's room, Yassamin protests immediately at the very idea of sleeping, using every possible excuse to not leave Salsabil's side. The accident has made her even more nervous, even more jittery than she normally is; and on Yassamin's scale, that means very nervous and jittery indeed. She is hysterical, as if a man fresh out of war and in battle-shock; she refuses to listen even as Jaffar reminds her that first of all, she hardly got any sleep the previous night, so that now she will have been up for nearly two days straight; and that second, she will not be of any use to her daughter if she kills herself from exhaustion. But even this persuasion is to no avail: he and Zahra have to practically wrestle her out of her seat, and finally, Jaffar has to resort to magic in order to calm her.

"Look, my love," he says, struggling with Yassamin in his arms. "Come, look at me."

"You're trying to hypnotise me," she says, turning her face away from him, her frizzled hair flying all over. "It's no use; I shan't look!"

"Come, wife, let me help. It's for your own good!"

"I am not a child!" she cries, still trying to wriggle free.

He groans and rolls his eyes, clutching her by the arms. "Then stop behaving like one!"

"Let go of me!"

"Fine!" he cries. "I shall."

He does let go, but not before he's blown out a rune, opened her mind's gates and slid into her a relaxation-spell, that magical opium-wine of warmth and happiness and rest that he has so often used with her before.

"That's... that's not fair," Yassamin slurs, slumping into Jaffar's arms.

"You didn't leave me much choice, my love," he says, brushing her hair away from her face, kissing her softly. "Will you _now_ come to bed?"

"Mmm. S'pose I mussht."

"Good girl," he says and lifts her into his arms. "Good night, Zahra," he says over his shoulder.

"Good night. And good luck," Zahra says, already with a gentle hand upon Salsabil's forehead.

 _I will need it,_ he thinks as he begins to carry Yassamin to bed, deciding to use a spell to spirit them into the love-chamber, because while it has the largest and most comfortable of beds, he most certainly doesn't have any strength left to carry her upstairs.

"'M sorry," Yassamin mumbles as Jaffar changes her into her nightdress and lays her into bed.

"I worry for you, my love," he says as he undresses to his loincloth and slips into bed with her.

"I s'pose I'm lucky... that you do, I mean," she slurs and turns to face him.

It takes her several tries to clasp his hand; he truly has made her limbs heavy with the pleasure. Too heavy, in fact.

"If I clear your head, will you promise to stay?" he asks and squeezes her hand. "For my sake."

"...Ll right."

He pulls her into his arms and kisses her, at first soft and tender, light; he sips the magic out of her like liquid honey, imbibing some of it into his own body, letting it swirl warm into his belly. God, but he has needed this relaxation himself! For only when the magical sweetness dissolves the aches in his joints, his cold and bruised feet with its gold does he realise just how thoroughly he had mangled himself in his search for her and Salsabil; the magical wound-salve may have healed the cuts and bruises themselves, but the muscles underneath them were still very stiff and sore. Thus, he drinks the healing magic from her slowly, like wine, until they are both equally mellow with it: more pleasantly warm than staggering drunk.

"There," he whispers against her lips, his eyes closed, his eyelashes soft against her cheek. "Is that better?"

"Yes," she kisses upon his lips, his nose, nuzzling his face with skin and breath. "And glad to be alive," she whispers, suddenly hugging him to herself tightly, so tightly the boniness of his body presses into her softness hard and sharp. "You know, as I was flying up there, high in the sky, I thought... I thought that I could somehow not die as long as you lived; that it was impossible. Perhaps it is mad of me, that certainty, but somehow I knew we wouldn't be apart then, when the final hour came. It makes no sense, I know--"

He hushes her with a kiss, a kiss passionate, claiming; he crushes her against his body the way she wants him to, needs him to. _That the thought of us **not** being the one and the same being in two bodies could even enter your mind and call itself Reason? Now, **that** is the talk of a madwoman, mad._

She laughs into his mouth and waves her hand to undo their clothes, flick-flick; softly lowering them in a pile at the foot of the bed, she purrs and pulls him atop herself, curling her legs around him. _Then it must be that you are the part of us that our Reason lives in, and in me our Madness,_ she whispers into his mind.

 _I shan't dispute a compliment,_ he murmurs and caresses her hair, adoring her face, taking her in; kissing her eyelids, nose, all of her face, he sighs over and over in joy at having her in his arms again. _I do know that the madness in me began to recede drastically once I found you,_ he speaks to her heart as he kisses its pulses upon her neck, feels with his lips its echoes upon her breastbone. "Perhaps you ate my madness from me, my little ghoul!" he chuckles out loud, nipping at her right breast.

At this, she yelps and slaps at his back with her hands and her feet; laughing, with a little tussle she pushes him down by the shoulders. "Yes; I feel a distinct overabundance of madness-humours down there, in fact; you know how ill humours accumulate in the womb. Methinks it's high time you took some of that madness back, sucked it back like you did with the magic," she cackles, her tongue peeking out of her grinning mouth.

"That's it!" he cries, yanking her legs over his shoulders, nipping and sucking and play-biting at her thighs all over until she shrieks with giggles. "I declare this a medical emergency! For my physician's instincts tell me that this woman is hopelessly insane from an excess of sap, doomed lest she receive a good--shall we call it _a cunny-letting?_ \--right now!"

He dives in, Yassamin laughing and dropping her limbs onto the bed theatrically, yet also from true fatigue. Nevertheless, as exhausted as they both are--emotionally and physically--he knows and she knows that they will be unable to sleep, to shake off the horrors of the past few days lest they love those horrors to death. Thus, they set out to suffocate those terrors with their kisses, to grind them down with passion's blows, the deepest of gouges of flesh into flesh; thus, they cling to one another, touching, tasting, grasping and taking each other's bodies anew.

Tears spring to Jaffar's eyes as he tastes the sweetness of her cunny, her love for him flowing from it, this warm pulse and flutter and nectar that might have never again blessed his mouth; he marvels at the miracle of human love so transforming, quickening the body: her physical response to him an unfalsifiable, honest proof of one who truly loves. So simple, yet so marvellous, so sublime that the body--so belittled by the ascetics!--can become Love itself, every atom of it full of heat and of yearning and the desire to take, to give; the entire flesh so alive with passion's vibrance from its deepest, hottest caverns to the sensitised, erect hairs that electrify the skin.

Oh, but it would be the worst of blasphemies to deny the holiness of this; for never is the marvel of God's Presence more real to him than at this moment: at Yassamin howling out her sorrows, thrashing out her terrors as upon his mouth and his curling fingers, she comes undone. The heat of her flesh clutching about his fingers, the pulse of her veins, of the womb that had given life to their children: truly, he is touching the core of the immanent Divine, humbled at being able to make Life itself so ripple about his own flesh. And to think that this is but the beginning, but the first step--

Yet, before he can lift himself up so as to slide into her, the way he usually does at this stage, she has risen up with a groan desperate. This is soon followed by another cry, one hoarse--that of their womb-sealing spell--accompanying it as she rolls him onto his back and straddles him. Fumbling, staggering in her need, she guides him inside of herself far too quickly, far too swiftly, so that he can feel she is hurting herself; yet, he daren't stop her when she is in such a mood.

 _Easy, my beloved demoness,_ he murmurs into her mind as he worships her breasts with kisses; _I love you, love you, love you,_ he soothes her, with his hands sliding up and down her waist and her hips. He lets her feel her own heat, her own luscious wetness, the amazing sensation of the sweet, lush and hot stickiness of her cunny's lips pressing against his pudendum; so deeply does he weave and knot himself into her, soul to soul as prick to womb, that the sob that bursts deep from the bottom of his hips now rolls out of her body a moan.

"My love, my love, my love," she cries huskily, rolling back her head, her spine arching, her breasts pointing high; her hair brushing his legs as she bends backwards, her breath catching in her throat as she drops and grinds her hips as deep down onto him as she can. Her muscles squeeze at him so tightly he thinks he will expire; her entire body shudders, her nipples crinkling as she lets out another moan, this time an ululation deliberately rhythmical, so as to spread the pleasure from her sex deep into her hips and her chest. She arches, rocks upon him, finally releasing her muscles' tension for a while; breathless, she tosses her body forwards, her hair flying over his head as she takes his mouth in a deep kiss: "my love, my love."

He keens his joy into her mouth, his hands wild in her hair, his fingers claws upon her hips. Now, he slaps at her buttocks, urging her on by pushing his hips upwards, urging her into a ride; using his own voice and his hips to beat into her a new rhythm, to strike pleasure-echoes from the taut muscles of her cunny, his ripples joining hers as one.

 _My demoness, my demoness,_ he shoots his pleasure into her a vineful of golden tendrils, curlicues of light; thus, he licks at her with his inner voice, just as he now flicks at her clitoris with his thumb. _Even without a flying beast you are a marvel bewinged, soaring me to the heavens with your ride,_ he vibrates into her with a new moan.

She clutches at his hair, gritting her teeth, wincing against his cheek as she takes him with a hurry desperate, a violence hungry; forehead against forehead, she now stares into him as she swallows him with her cunny, to reassure herself he is real, that she is real, that this is wonderfully, fantastically, miraculously all real. She keens from between her teeth, huffing against his face, never taking her eyes from his as she forces herself to orgasm upon him. Yet this is a hard and rough, too-mild an orgasm, if such a mild ripple even counts as an orgasm at all; she slips forwards, groaning in frustration as she falls onto him, her hand rubbing at her cunny in vain.

"More," she moans with her face in the pillow beside him, now; inwardly, he can hear her cursing about how she can never relax fully when astride.

"You only had to ask," he laughs, never leaving her body as he turns her around, slamming so hard into her they both see stars; wanting to free their hands so as to clasp hers, he whispers out a curl of magic to take her clitoris, to suck at it in lieu of his mouth, to rub at it in his hand's stead.

Her eyes fly wide and her breath stops: he but laughs as he laces their fingers, pins her down entire and pounds out of her the stutters, drives out of her the gasps, ravishing her as the beast he wants, she wants him to be. He now the demon spreading about her the wings of his heat, his rut and a passion altogether maniacal, fevered, he slams her into the mattress with his hips, his hips and his back aching, burning so that he no longer knows which ache in him is his age and which soreness in him is but his need. For always, always she makes him raw like this, makes him pained like this in his heart and his sex and his limbs; only the sweet and warm rain of her love can soothe this burning of his. The night rain of her tears of joy as she sobs underneath him, helpless, consumed, so completely dissolved in him it is bliss: with each one of his blows does he slay a horror in her, with each pleasure-wave an agony, with every hip-roll a fear.

"That you are here, here, here," he sobs into her mouth as he surges right into the vortex of her release-spasms; "alive and mine and--oh, God," he meaows, his voice high as she comes around him so violently she milks his own release out of him in perfect rhythm, he shooting into each one of her convulsions as light and stars; each one of her ripples an aurora through her flesh, its myriad colours cascading through his. Shooting stars falling over iridescent billow upon iridescent billow, dancing through the darkness of their joined flesh; purple and green and golden stars melting into another a comet, the heat of their entwined limbs nestling this wonderful glow for a long while, embers incandescent within their dark night.

 _That I have you, you, you,_ his mind echoes into her, sinks sweetly into the darkness of the embrace of her flesh. _That you are here now, alive, here and mine to hold, mine,_ he weeps in joy against her heart, a joy so great that he is tearless for his happiness and his exhaustion, just as a deep sorrow is tearless from having so emptied the soul. _My jessamine abloom; never leave me; never cease being mine._

 _As if a jasmine could ever bloom without her wellspring, the one that gives her life!_ she murmurs into his mind with a glad sigh.

As they lie there side by side, her hand upon his heart, she regards him, still with marvel in her eyes; even if her voice is now almost completely gone, she has to speak this aloud. "Had you not called upon Anwar to help us, stirred his faith with yours to raise that carpet..." she shudders, closing her eyes. "Once again, I owe to you my life, my love. To you, and to your seed, from which our little saviour sprung."

"As did our little wandering dervish!" he laughs. "But more than anything, I am glad God decided to spare them--even if, and I think you'll agree, we will be left wondering about the lessons He intended for us to learn from this particular adventure for quite some time."

She shakes her head. " _The Inexpressible, Unfathomable... Such is God, your sustainer._ "

"Emphasis on _the sustainer!_ " he groan-yawns with happiness and rocks her in his arms. "Speaking of which, have you eaten anything today? You look pale."

"I'm too tired," she mumbles and nestles into the crook of his arm, closing her eyes.

"Now, now, my young lady," he admonishes her with a wag of his finger. "You know that won't work on me." And now, with a twirl of that same finger, he has cast over them the cleansing-spell, flashing hot over her skin and inside of her sex, startling her with a yelp.

She sighs. "Can't you think of a belly-filling spell? Besides, if I eat just before sleeping, I'm _definitely_ going to have nightmares, and an upset stomach in the morning."

He snaps his fingers, and before them materialises a little tray with rich, creamy herbal tea and three of Zahra's exquisite wheat cakes.

Yassamin blinks.

"That was lucky," Jaffar sighs with relief. "Had there been none left over, it would have just been the empty tray."

"If this was to be Zahra's supper or breakfast, I will never forgive you, you know," she says with her mouth already full of cake. Jaffar was right, though, the all-knowing bastard; she _is_ as hungry as the wolf.

He closes his eyes and murmurs a long litany, drawing a shimmering sigil in the air, dividing it in sections, doodling various different smaller symbols into it, then blowing it out of his palm as if a kiss.

"What was _that?_ "

"Contingency planning. If that was, indeed, Zahra's--or anyone else's--supper or breakfast, I have arranged it so that there will now be a perfectly cooked, full meal of her favourite dishes awaiting her in its stead, should she come looking for it."

"She'll complain about the meat being inadequately spiced and poorly stewed," Yassamin munches and slurps through her tea.

"Now you're getting crumbs on the bed," Jaffar sighs and dusts them away with his hand as she finishes.

Yassamin rolls her eyes and levitates the dishes--and the rest of the crumbs, pointedly--off the bed, finishes the spell by slipping her nightgown back on with its help and finally, flops onto the pillows with a sigh. "There. Happy now?"

"Mmm," he says and kisses one last crumb off that perfect curve of her mouth. "I am satisfied."

"Put me to sleep again," she whispers, her eyes closed, holding his hand. "I couldn't bear one more nightmare."

"Very well," he says and squeezes her hand; in fact, he could use a deep sleep-spell himself.

With the last of his magic, he pours the psychic sleeping-draught down their throats, just like that herbal tea she had just drunk; soon, both feel light in mind and heavy in body, like sunlight within gold, and drift off into a sleep deep and warm.

***

In the children's room, Salsabil smiles in her sleep, her forehead much cooler to the touch; now, Zahra can finally allow herself to sleep as well. But not until she's lifted the blanket to allow one more little adventurer into bed: little Mustafa leaps in, purring, curling up between her and Salsabil to sleep.

Sonbol and Anwar lie bundled together in Sonbol's room, too, no one in the house keen on sleeping alone tonight; Anwar sleeps peacefully, spooned up in Sonbol's arms. Indeed, they are so fast asleep neither even notices as Ishtiaq lets himself in, burrows underneath the blanket and curls up underneath Anwar's arm to sleep.

Meanwhile, at Thousand Suns, Zainab no longer has a headache: softly snuffling in her sleep, she cradles Lina's little head against the pillows of her breasts as Fadl's long, wiry limbs wrap about them both; he is so blissfully happy that the upturned tips of his moustache twitch against Zainab's hair in his sleep.

***

**The End**

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A doodle of Lina yoinking Fadl's sword as they see the crash, [here](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Doodles/dreamsinflight/fadllinasword.jpg).

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable promo post for this fic [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/699571)


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